


Quest 09: Our Spirits, Kindred

by FishiesGoneFiction



Series: Of Gods and Men [9]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-19 15:51:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22713253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishiesGoneFiction/pseuds/FishiesGoneFiction
Summary: When Ariane is kidnapped and the signs point to Sliske, Jahaan is forced to confront the Mahjarrat once again. But this time, things take a turn for the twisted, and Jahaan uncovers the truth behind Sliske’s obsession with him. Can Jahaan survive Sliske’s games? After all, broken bones heal faster than a broken mind...
Series: Of Gods and Men [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1340662
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Grip of the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

High above the clouds, Armadyl and his avianse were housed in a temporary cloud fortress that they had erected upon their return to Gielinor. The Empyrean Citadel was unsuitable for housing their numbers, after all. That, and it had been tainted by Sliske’s presence. So, they had to build themselves temporary lodgings, for you can’t exactly spread the avianse across the bed and breakfasts of Misthalin. It helped that the avianse were known for being skilled carpenters. One wouldn’t think that upon looking at them, but never judge a book by its cover.

Looking out towards the horizon of a new dawn, Armadyl stood in quiet contemplation. He’d been trying to work through the turmoils of the last few years in solitude, taking to meditating at the break of day. While doing this, he’d organise his current stresses and plan ways to deal with them by prioritising the most pressing issues and working backwards. He didn’t want to worry his generals by showing just how much it was eating at him to be back on Gielinor. When they’d first arrived on Gielinor in the Second Age, they were escaping their homeworld of Abbinah, looking for peace and community in a pure world that was rich in resources, a world that would allow them to prosper without the threat of constant storms and hurricanes raging above, a world that didn’t require ritual sacrifice of the elderly to relieve the burden on the young.

Gielinor was that perfect world.

Now, it was being ravaged by war, just as it was many centuries ago. Those who forget the past were doomed to repeat it, and Armadyl was not going to let what happened to his avianse on that fateful day ever happen again.

Now, new issues had arisen, namely his ‘prize’ of inheriting the vast majority of Bandosians after he’d slain their god. Honestly, he didn’t expect that to happen. Not that he didn’t welcome the challenge of teaching a new group that there was a way of life beyond war, a way of life instead driven by peace and justice. But undoing eons of Bandosian indoctrination had left him with his hands full. Understaffed and unprepared, Armadylean forces had been stretched thin.

And then, Armadyl had heard about the fate of the Dorgesh-Kaan.

The guilt of being unable to prevent this genocide, one execuated in his name, was clawing at his heart.

Kree'arra entered onto the balcony, tentatively calling out, “My lord?”

Shuddering, Armadyl tried to briefly take the Dorgesh-Kaan out of his mind. Turning to the general, he attempted a warm smile. “Come, Kree'arra. What news do you bring?”

“Nothing positive, my lord,” Kree'arra regretfully admitted. “The situation in Ardougne is growing worse by the day, and our scouts are no closer to finding Sliske and your Staff.”

Armadyl wasn’t disappointed. Not really, anyway. In both matters, he’d expected as much. The reports had plateaued, and he didn’t expect much of an improvement anytime soon.

“Kree'arra,” Armadyl’s tone was resigned, yet resolved. “If the situation here on Gielinor continues to deteriorate, I am not putting my people in harm's way by remaining. We shall depart this world and find somewhere else to nest, with or without my Staff. Power is nothing if my people are lost, like I thought they were all those years ago.”

“But where would we go, my lord?” Kree'arra asked, softly. “We cannot return to Abbinah.”

“Of course not, but I have an idea… it may be a long shot, yes, but we might be able to save those left behind on Abbinah, and create a new home for all of the avianse. Say, Kree'arra… what do you know of Tarddiad.”

Furrowing his brow, Kree'arra replied, “The homeland of the elves? Little, my lord. It is known as a land covered in trees.”

“And mountaintops, waterfalls, lush vegetation…” Armadyl added, growing in excitement. “I have a plan. Seren cares a lot for her elves - she’s a compassionate being, kinder than all the other gods I have encountered. Our people are skilled craftsmen and healers, so we could help her people in numerous ways. If I can persuade Seren to share the skies of Tarddiad with us, we needn’t ever want for resources or stability ever again. We would be safe, Kree'arra!”

His frown deepening, Kree'arra averted his gaze from the diety’s. Armadyl had always been a dreamer, but Kree'arra found himself to be a pessimist by nature, always hating to ground the idealistic musings of his god. “That would be wonderful, my lord… but do you really think Seren would give up part of sovereignty over Tarddiad to us?”

“It would take some convincing, yes,” Armadyl accepted. “But I shall discuss the idea with her upon our next encounter. Hopefully she will see the merits in my proposal.”

Turning back towards the horizon, Armadyl’s tone was wistful, yet determined, as he said, “I will find a home for us, Kree'arra. I will save the avianse…”

***

It was a dreary Essianday in Lumbridge, but as Essianday was the Saradominist holy day of the week, church was in service. Father Urhney, an irritable priest, was leading the congregation. Never in a good mood, the wild-haired priest detested being back in the town of Lumbridge, having moved into the swamps to the south not so long ago in an attempt to spend two years in silent meditation and prayer. However, every time someone bothered him with conversation, he forced himself to start over. Hence, he was a rather grumpy fellow.

Since the end of the Battle of Lumbridge, the town’s residents - usually devout Saradominists - had been attending services less and less, meaning that the coffers at the front were a lot lighter than usual. Considering this was how the priests gained an income in the town, it was a worry for them all, even those who had isolated themselves in a swampy shack.

The reason for the drop in attendance was due to a rise in Godless and Armadylean supporters who had turned from Saradomin after the Battle of Lumbridge was concluded. Turns out, not many people care to have their town demolished and the deity they pray to walk away without so much as an apology.

The priest that usually ran the quaint little service was Father Aereck, a frail and subdued man, who was not well equipped to deal with the challenge of regaining Saradominist support in Lumbridge.

Because of this, Father Urhney forced himself from his little shack and ventured back into the town to take over regular services. Today was his first one, and word had gotten around about his return, so the church was a lot fuller than normal. It turned out that a lot of people had questions they wanted answered, and Father Aereck was not doing the job for them, so they made the most of utilising Father Urhney’s time.

But upon hearing the white noise of chattering, questions, demands and a few stray insults, Father Urhney regretted his life choices. Irritably shaking his head, he raised his hands in an attempt to calm the congregation.

This achieved nothing.

Gritting his teeth, he squinted his eyes tightly and exclaimed, “Please, one at a time! Saradomin only has two ears, and so do I.”

Fortunately, that was enough to subdue them, but it wouldn’t last long. So, capitalising on the silence, he motioned to a man in the front row, one of the rowdier members who was chomping at the bit to speak. 

“Why should we follow Saradomin anymore?” the man asked, a loaded question if there ever was one. “He left our town in ruins. I heard about this Armadyl guy - he seems to be a stand up fella, preachin’ justice and peace and all that.”

“He went to war with Bandos in open conflict,” Father Urhney countered, rolling his eyes. “Not very peaceful if you ask me. But yes, before you say it, Bandos was a threat that needed to be neutralised. He’s dead now. Zamorak is still out there, causing chaos. He’s invaded Ardougne! Where’s Armadyl now? He’s left those people there to fend for themselves, whereas Saradomin has sent his forces to battle the dark Zamorak head on. Peace can only be achieved once Saradomin takes his rightful place as the only god in Gielinor. There is a pattern to the ascendance and collapse of civilisation - a cycle of tragedy. Saradomin has the knowledge to break this cycle, and most importantly, the will to lead everyone forwards. Gielinor, and other worlds, would be brought into a new age. A utopia. Other gods can claim this, but only Saradomin has the experience necessary to make it happen. Alas, utopia must sometimes be built on bones, so let the lesser gods be the foundation. Then, Saradomin can lead everyone to a glorious future!”

“Lead? You mean, he wants to control everyone?” a disgruntled man in the second row called out, earning a few concurring nods and mumbles from the rest of the attendees.

Father Urhney tried his best to keep his tone measured as he replied, “You say that as though it were a bad thing. People need governments, leaders and structures. Just as freedom doesn't mean anarchy, control doesn't have to mean slavery. Saradomin offers guidance and leadership, law and order. Under his 'control', people could thrive. Everyone would have the reassurance that they know where they belong and how they should behave. Deep down, everyone wants to know where they sit in the world. What you call control, I would argue is true freedom. Freedom to know how life should be lived and how to fulfil one’s potential.”

“I heard from my niece in Ardougne that there’s a Mahjarrat-y fellow running around with one of them there elder weapons! He’s gonna use it to destroy everyone!”

This statement came out of nowhere, interrupting the contemplative quiet that had arose following Father Urhney’s response. For all his personal foibles, Father Urhney was incredibly devout and the conviction from which he spoke could turn even the most stubborn of heads.

But now, that peace had been ruined, and naturally, the congregation went into panicked uproar. Some of the Lumbridge folk were rural and quite traditional in their beliefs, but they knew enough to decide that the Mahjarrat were bad, and one having an Elder Weapon was worse. Of course, this was a gross oversimplification, one that a lot of Mahjarrat would take umbrage to, but the public perception was hard to change, and Sliske running around with the Stone of Jas was doing little to help matters.

The lack of Saradominist Mahjarrat didn’t help either.

Having heard Brother Samwell’s tale of Sliske, Icthlarin and the Empyrean Citadel, Father Urhney was a lot more knowledgeable on what was really going on in the world in comparison to his congregation. Deciding that giving at least a little bit of context could assist in both settling the nerves of the churchgoers and prove that he and his fellow priests were in-the-know, Father Urhney once again silenced the crowd and said, “Calm down, everyone. If you let me talk, I can quell some of these exaggerated rumours. Now, firstly, yes, there’s a Mahjarrat who has the Stone of Jas, and-QUIET! For Saradomin’s sake, can you let me finish?! Yes, the rumours are true, but Saradomin is fighting to get the Stone back into his safekeeping, and he WILL succeed. He will take the fight to all the other gods, and this Mahjarrat, and the Stone will be his once again. That’s why he needs your support!”

“Why Saradomin?” one of the men at the back piped up, pushing off from the wall he was leaning against. “Why not another god, or heck, how about NO god?”

“The Stone will fall into someone’s hands, it cannot simply go no-where and belong to no-one,” Father Urhney grumbled, shaking his head with an irritated sigh. “Saradomin has wielded the Stone before, wisely and with care, and he shall do so again. Can you say such of the others? The dark Zamorak would use it to destroy the world; Zaros would enslave it to his will, and grow more dangerous than ever; Armadyl has no idea what to do with such power, and would destroy himself with his naivety; and Seren would use its power only in support of her precious elves. Saradomin, on the other hand, will use its power with wisdom and compassion, for the betterment of ALL life on Gielinor. Now, are there any more questions?”

Once he saw almost every hand in the room shoot up, it took everything in Father Urhney’s power to not storm out and end the service early.

***

The dragonkin were a race of powerful and intelligent dragon-like creatures that originated from the previous cycle of the universe, a handful of them having survived the revision of the universe by hiding in the Abyss. The surviving dragonkin sought out Jas for mercy or retribution, only to end up being bound to her Catalyst - the Stone of Jas - and were tasked with protecting it at all costs. When the Stone was used by a being other than Jas, they were cursed to feel great pain and suffering that could only be eased by violence and rampage. Thus, tales of the dragonkin speak of a malevolent and dangerous species.

There were two factions of the dragonkin on Gielinor. The first, the Dactyl dragonkin, who repress the urge to cause destruction and kill 'False Users'. Instead, they undertake research and perform experiments in an attempt to sever their connection to the Stone of Jas. The other faction were the Necrosyrtes, a war-like faction comprised of those who have given into their urge to cause destruction. Kerapac belonged to the former, and had dedicated his life to ridding the dragonkin of Jas’ curse.

On this night, Kerapac was found huddled over one of the journals he was writing, locked inside his cramped and dimly lit study. He and his fellow draginkin had been forced from their home at the heart of Daemonheim when Bilrach tunnelled deep into its depths. Realistically, they could have fought off any intruder, but were against revealing themselves to the world at such a time. In fact, if Kerapac had his way, they would still be an unknown presence in Gielinor. Unfortunately, Sithaph and Strisath had taken matters into their own hands, succeeding at retrieving the Staff of Armadyl (momentarily) but falling short of safeguarding the Stone. After all, they didn’t have the power to teleport the Stone to safety by themselves. They were brutes, weaklings -  _ kath _ , as they were known in the dragonkin language. And thanks to them, the world knew about the existence of the dragonkin.

Kerapac had self-proclaimed himself as the ‘Observer’, watching over the affairs of Gielinor with patience and detachment. Until now, that is. With Sliske’s slaying of Guthix and bringing back the gods to Gielinor, the world was in upheaval, and Kerapac could sense the disturbance beneath him. The Elder Gods would awaken soon, they would hatch their spawn, and so the universe would restart once again, just like it did eons ago. Kerapac sensed it then, and managed to hide some of his people away… but he knew he would not be so lucky this time.

But while they were still bound to the Stone, there was very little the dragonkin could do.

Kerapac knew that the time for observation was over, and he formulated a plan. Many plans, in fact - Kerapac was not a being to leave much to chance. If successful, this latest idea would leave the Elder Mirror in his possession. The Elder Mirror was used by the Elder Gods for large-scale creation, being able to create copies of things. Currently, the dragonkin had tracked down its location to a being known simply as ‘V’, the god of the Fremennik people.

As of now, V had kept to himself, choosing to isolate himself and his people from the current affairs of the other deities, along with the chase for the Stone of Jas.

Kerapac had no qualms about killing him. He’d slaughter civilisations if it meant his fellow dragonkin could finally be free.

Other such plans had yet to return positive results; no dragonkin had managed to locate Sliske, as of yet, and the search for the other Elder Artifacts wasn’t going so well. Twelve were known, but only a handful were even obtainable. The Siphon and the Catalyst - colloquially known as the Staff of Armadyl and the Stone of Jas, respectively - were in Sliske’s possession. The Locator, also known as the Crown Archival, was able to find other Elder Artifacts, though only ones of considerably less power. It would prove incredibly useful to any deity, and indeed to the dragonkin, but it was currently held by Saradomin, who Kerapac knew had too much power and support to take on directly. Others, such as The Kiln, were useless to the dragonkin, only used for creating TokHaar workers to shape the world. And then there were the artefacts that were lost to time and space, those that may not even be on Gielinor, such as The Codex and The Template. Kerapac only knew of their existence due to his past proximity to the Stone of Jas, something that granted him knowledge most mortals could only dream of.

So many artefacts, so many gods, so little time.

But for now, Kerapac kept writing in his journal, documenting his work to save his people from the curse brought upon them by a being as old as the universe. If it meant killing a god, or numerous gods, he would do so. If it meant challenging Sliske directly, he would do so. If it meant laying down his own life so that his descendents could live without suffering, he would do so.

***

The small study Sliske had carved out for himself was dimly lit in the glow of only two candles. It made the knife-work he was undertaking much more of a challenge, having to refrain from slicing off his own fingers with the sharp blade, but this helped him focus more, to concentrate on the task at hand instead of letting his mind drift to unwanted realms. Unfortunately, that suffocating feeling always managed to creep inside, rattling with voices that were always his own, always familiar, yet simultaneously alien.

The voices had been there since he was young, and he’d managed to keep them a secret from the rest of his tribe. Except from his brother, that is, who was the only one he could confide in at such a young age. These voices didn’t worry him, and from what he’d gathered from his time amongst humans, many of them were subject to the same conditions.

_ Perhaps Mahjarrat are susceptible too? Perhaps I’m not the only one? _

He didn’t know, and venturing such a notion would have led him down a rabbit hole, perhaps even to the Marker.

So, they were kept a secret.

Well, for the most part; Relomia - Sliske’s emissary, someone who often lurked in Sliske’s lair whenever the Mahjarrat would permit company - had often heard her master mutter to himself when in the depths of deep thought, conversing with himself like he wasn’t the only one in the room. It troubled her, to hear some of the things her master would say, but she didn’t dare confront him, for he might not take too kindly to the notion she had been eavesdropping all this time.

Whittling wooden masks was Sliske’s favourite way to de-stress; whenever he felt overwhelmed by anything and needed to clear his mind, or simply narrow it enough to fix a troubling part of a plan, he would take a knife and carve theatrical masks. Some of them he would enchant, for the humour in it, but the vast majority he would burn.

There was never much subtlety or nuance in Sliske’s masks. For a being that prided himself on being unreadable, his wooden creations undercut that entirely. Sliske had already carved eight masks this evening alone and was working on his ninth. This mask, however, was blank. Not that he had yet to carve an emotion into it, but the mask itself portrayed emotionless.

“You’ve been waiting for this your entire lifetime,” Sliske growled lowly to himself. “If you don’t act now, it may be too late. Gods know you have a target on your back…”

“You shouldn’t have told him. You should have known he would betray you.”

“Why did you tell him? Why did you think honesty would get you anywhere? It never has and it never will.”

“He went behind your back. He was never going to fulfil the agreement.”

“Why did you think he would be any different?”

“You thought you could reason with him? Bargain for something so precious? You fool.”

“What is wrong with you?” he hissed with disgust, causing his knife hand to slip and accidentally slice his into his thumb. The wound wasn’t deep, but claret still trickled across the mask’s face, dripping through the eyehole and into a small puddle beneath him. “He wouldn’t be persuaded so easily. Be reasonable. Plan A was a longshot - you knew that. So, you’ll just have to do things the hard way...”

After a few more minutes of bloodstained whittling, Sliske held the mask up to admire his handiwork, though instead regarded it with nothing more than a heavy glare of disinterest. He tossed it into the corner. 

Rising to his feet, he walked over to the pile of masks he’d accumulated over the last few months. It took up a fair bit of space; Sliske was holding off on burning them until he could justify a bonfire. “Everything is ready. Soon, he’ll be ready too. A few hours and it’ll all be over. You’ll be safe, forever. It’s what you’ve always wanted. Immortality is within reach, so don’t let those ridiculous notions of yours get in the way. After all, you’ll forget him in time.”

He reached among the pile and found a mask with a wicked sneer carved into it. Holding it up to his face, he mimicked the expression inside the mask. “Yes, it won’t be long now…”


	2. Rest for the Weary

After leaving the Wizards’ Tower, Jahaan was at a loss. Between Ozan’s condition and Ariane’s cutting words, his head was swirling. The effects of the pain relievers had also worn off, so he was fighting through the dull aching of his ribs, knowing there wasn’t an apothecary in Draynor. Well, not one that he would trust, anyway, and he didn’t want to get desperate enough to seek aid from the resident witches. 

And so he just started walking. He didn’t know what else to do. He walked on throughout the day and well into the evening, following the water’s edge around Draynor Village. Since he was veering west, Jahaan settled upon Port Sarim as his destination, camping in a small clearing for the night. It wasn’t as peaceful as when he did it in Catherby, mind. Jahaan was still too close to Draynor, and the constant grey clouds that draped over the town caused a constant chill in the air. On top of that, it took too long to find firewood that wasn’t damp, and despite having his backpack with his small fishing net on him, all he was able to catch was a couple of tiny shrimp that barely did enough to sate his appetite. Rocks and sharp leaves dug into his back and exposed skin all night long, worsened by the amount he was tossing and turning from the aching of his ribs.

Utterly miserable, Jahaan left the next dawn with about an hour’s sleep in his system.

Port Sarim had repaired the damage since his last visit there. In fact, you couldn’t tell the port town had been subject to a dragonkin attack at all. The buildings had been fixed and the scorch marks long since painted over. He did recognise Patchy though, standing outside the bar and sporting a rather snazzy peg-leg. Those things were quite the fashion with pirates, after all.

Jahaan remarked to himself how it was nice to see the pirate back on his feet, but quickly regretted the poor choice of words.

Without even stopping for a drink, Jahaan took the first boat he could out to Catherby, revelling in the change of climate as he approached the pristine shores. It felt like eons ago when Jahaan mused to himself about settling down in Catherby. Right now, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more.

And so, after venturing slightly into the wooded area, he built himself a fire, readied his net to catch some more substantial fish, and breathed a sigh of relief as he realised the only sounds he could hear were the swishing of the waves and the low cry of distant seagulls.

The next day, Jahaan found Postie Pete and sent a letter to Ozan, wishing him well and saying how he’d be in Catherby for the foreseeable future. However, he never heard back. After two weeks, Jahaan managed to find Postie Pete and ask how Ozan seemed when he delivered the letter. It turned out that Ariane was taking in all of Ozan’s mail, which explained why Jahaan wasn’t receiving any correspondence.

“If you see him yourself, can you wish him well for me?” Jahaan asked with a lump in his throat. He didn’t want Ozan to think he wasn’t bothering to write to him, after all.

Instead, Postie Pete had been hurt at the thought of his mail being intercepted. Ariane said he’d give the letter straight to Ozan, and she’d lied.

“I’ll do one better, mate,” the skull rattled as its jaw bones knocked together. “You write another one, and I’ll make sure to hand it to him personally this time. It’s my honour and duty as a postman for the Gielinorian Postal Service to make sure every letter is delivered promptly and with integrity!”

Jahaan loved how seriously Postie Pete took his work - it was admirable. So, he took him up on his offer straight away, quickly writing out a new letter and placing it in the skull’s mouth. Then, Postie Pete went on his way.

Regular correspondence returned between Jahaan and Ozan after that. Much to his relief, Jahaan heard that Ozan was recuperating rather well, enough to abandon bedrest. Still, he was too weak to do much other than bumble around the Wizards’ Tower, to which he confessed his worst ailment was severe cabin fever.

They didn’t even have booze there.

His burns has scarred over a fair bit, but they were still hurting him a great deal. Out of curiosity, he tried to draw back an old bow he’d found when wandering around in the basement. However, he barely got halfway to the bowstring being taunt before his muscles gave out and he couldn’t take the pain anymore. The wizards had thrown around the idea of potential nerve damage and said that recovery would be a slow process, but with the right amount of rest and rehabilitation, he would be able to wield a bow again. From the outset though, it looked like Jahaan’s ribs would heal long before Ozan’s wounds.

Jahaan had already withdrawn his sword and armour set from the bank, trying to reaccustom himself to the weight and feel of it all. There was no longer an issue with donning the armour - his body could handle that after the many weeks that had passed - but the swords were still an issue. Wielding with his right hand was no problem, and he could spar and parry almost as good as he always could. His left side, however, was another matter. Each swing would lightly stab at him, gradually getting worse and worse. He couldn’t practice for more than a few minutes at a time before the pain became too much.

So for now, duel wielding was out of the question, but he was optimistic about his recovery.

Jahaan wished he could say the same about Ozan. He wanted to go back and visit him, but thought better of it. Regardless of Ariane’s feelings towards him, Ozan was getting good care in the Wizards’ Tower and he didn’t need anyone distracting him from that.

At least, that’s what Jahaan kept telling himself.

In spite of it all, Jahaan couldn’t picture himself leaving Catherby anytime soon. He’d gotten back into the routine of fishing for the majority of the day and selling what he didn’t need to eat, accumulating a tiny sum as the days went on. It was calming, and he could pretend he wasn’t the World Guardian for a while, as selfish as that may be.

But that calm was slashed into fragments when he saw Ozan get off the boat at Catherby dock.

Jahaan was just finishing up selling his surplus supply for the day and planned to stop for a drink or two at the port’s pub. As the fishmonger was counting his coins, Jahaan casually observed the passengers disembarking the charter ship from Draynor, and had to do a double take when he saw a familiar figure coming his way. Dark quiffed hair, yellow and green tunic, bandages wrapping the exposed skin on his arms… there was no mistaking it.

Abandoning the merchant, Jahaan quickly rushed to intercept him, a grin as wide as the boat’s sail. “Ozan!”

However, when he got close enough to lock eyes with the man, his grin vanished in a heartbeat.

“Jahaan! I’m so glad I found you,” Ozan was breathless, his face red and his eyes bloodshot. He looked like… he’d been crying.

Pulling Ozan out of the path of people, Jahaan’s concern flooded his tone as he urged, “Ozan, are you okay? What’s wrong?!”

“I-It’s Ariane!” Ozan sniffed. “She’s been kidnapped!”

“What?!” Jahaan gasped, pressing Ozan for more information.

Trying to steady his breathing, Ozan explained, “W-We were visiting Draynor. I went into a store, she waited outside. There was a loud screech, and then she was gone! No-one really saw anything, it all happened so fast! B-But they said someone was taken the day before, too, by some vyre-like creature, or a large bird, or something, I don’t know! I panicked, I didn’t know what to do! S-So I came to you as fast as I could. They took  _ Ariane _ , Jahaan!”

In an effort to calm down his hysterical friend, Jahaan pulled Ozan into a tight hug, assuring, “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get her back.”

Pulling away, Jahaan asked, “Do you know anything else about these kidnappings? Anything that could help us?”

Ozan’s voice turned dark. “Well, I heard that Relomia, the emissary of Sliske, was there when the other person was taken. She seemed… shocked.”

“Sliske?” Jahaan blinked, confusion momentarily getting the best of him. Shaking those thoughts clear, he resolved, “Alright, we’re going to Draynor right now to find out what she knows.”

Unfortunately, Ozan had arrived on the last ship of the day, and there wouldn’t be another one until the break of dawn. Luckily, Jahaan had built up quite a reputation with some of the ship’s captains that he saw on a daily basis, and for double the fare, one of them agreed to sail throughout the night to land in Port Sarim by first light. Jahaan already had his armour and weapons with him, getting used to wearing it on a daily basis again, so they left immediately.

After arriving in Port Sarim the next morning, the two bribed a local fisherman to sail them across the short expanse of water between the port and Draynor Village. It cut down on hours worth of walking.

In Draynor, it was always night. Crows screamed incessantly, squawking bloody murder, becoming white noise to the villages residents. There was a reason house prices in Draynor were so low, and that’s because those who pass through there generally don’t want to do so again. Despite it being the nearest occupied settlement west of Lumbridge, the village’s council isolated itself from politics of the surrounding towns and cities, providing for itself where it could to limit trade. No-one had ever seen these council members though; many speculated they were just a fabrication by the real power of Draynor, the occupant of the house on the hill. Draynor Manor was haunted, it was no small secret - the trees attacked anyone who dared approach the door. It is widely believed to be the final resting place of Count Draynor Draken himself. No-one had confirmed this for sure, because those who went inside Draynor Manor never returned.

Stalking through the paths leading them towards the dismal market square, Ozan and Jahaan kept their guard up, wary of the eyes following their every move.

Draynor didn’t like outsiders.

It was behind the house of Aggie the Witch, the seller of clothing dyes, where Relomia was loitering.

The pair stormed up to her.

“All right, Relomia, start talking - what have you and Sliske done with Ariane?”

However, instead of the cocky response Jahaan was expecting, when Relomia turned around to face him, her eyes looked red and puffy, like she’d been crying. “Oh thank goodness! Jahaan, you have to help me! Sliske's been kidnapped!”

That… was not what he was expecting. “Come again?”

“It’s the dragonkin!” she explained, breathless and sniffling. “I don’t know what they did to him, but they found a way to strip him of his magic! He’s powerless! He needs our help!”

Ozan shivered, gulping down the lump in his throat. “If the creatures that took Sliske also took Ariane...” he didn’t dare to finish the thought.

Jahaan squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to regain some semblance of clarity inside his cluttered mind. “Okay, okay calm down… let’s just take this one step at a time. I can see why the dragonkin would want Sliske - death to the False Users and all - but why would they take Ariane?”

“I don’t know! But you have to get him back!” Relomia was practically begging. “And the Stone of Jas... my master’s strong, but I don’t know how long he can keep the location of the Stone a secret from them…”

Despite having a strong mind to tell Relomia that the dragonkin could keep that giggling, manipulative son of a bitch for all he cared, Jahaan knew he was over a barrel with this one; they had to get Ariane back, and Jahaan had seen firsthand the destruction the dragonkin could cause. If they utilised the power of the Stone…

Relenting, Jahaan announced, “Okay, if there’s a chance the dragonkin took Ariane and Sliske, we’ll try and get them back.”

Relieved, Relomia leapt over to hug Jahaan tightly, colliding with his armour. Awkwardly, he patted her on the back until he was freed.

Straightening out his platebody, Jahaan cleared his throat and asked, “So what happened, exactly?”

Her shoulders sagging, Relomia replied, “I'm not sure. Sliske sent me a message from the Shadow Realm. He was surrounded by dragonkin and somehow stripped of his power. I know they haven't found the Stone yet, but it is only a matter of time.”

The thought of facing off against dragonkin wasn’t exactly something Jahaan was looking forward to. It only got worse after he inquired, “Do you know where they took him?”

“The last message Sliske sent me said he was in a dragonkin prison near Daemonheim.”

Shoulders sagging, Jahaan was exasperated as he replied, “How do you expect us to get to Daemonheim? It’s continents away!”

“Oh, right!” Relomia slapped her forehead before rummaging around in her napsack, eventually bringing out a small red and gold patterned ring. “This is a ring of kinship. It’ll get you there in a jiffy. Just put it on and trace your finger over the patterns.”

Ozan pulled out a similar ring from his pocket. “I’ll meet you there.”

From one awfully naff location to another, step right up: Daemonheim.

There was just so much SNOW.

In hindsight, a little more preparation wouldn’t have gone amiss before teleporting to the wastelands. The castle protruded in the distance, a lumpy silhouette between the white mists and clouding fog. Beneath it, the dungeons of Daemonheim, floors upon floors of beasts, puzzles, mazes, traps and pitfalls. Beneath all that? Zamorak’s current fortress.

Jahaan did not welcome the memory of being down there.

The pair walked among the ruins. Ghosts of dead warriors floated between the stones and broken statues. Some of these statues resembled dragonkin; it was widely believed that the location used to be home to a dragonkin lair, the lair of Kerapac specifically, but that was ancient history. Bilrach’s construction of the dungeons beneath the castle seemed to cause a voluntary relocation. At least, that’s what everyone thought. Perhaps they had kept some of their lair after all?

“Hey Jahaan, over there,” Ozan pointed to a wooden trapdoor only partially covered by the snow. As the two trotted over, Ozan commented, “This wasn’t here the last time I came by this area. Maybe this is the lair?”

Jahaan, on the other hand, didn’t seem too convinced. “Hmm… I don’t know… this looks like any regular trapdoor. Not very dragonkin-y, if you know what I mean.”

“...Dragonkin-y?”

“I know, I know, but you hear what I’m saying, right?”

Ozan pondered this for a moment. “Maybe it’s disguised?”

“Maybe…”

“It's still worth checking out,” Ozan maintained, heaving the trapdoor open, sliding the snow off as he did.

Climbing down the ladder, the stone corridor was barely lit by more than a few candles scattered along the walls haphazardly. As it stretched far down into the darkness in both directions, the pair took their chances heading east.

“This seems pretty abandoned,” Jahaan whispered. “I can’t hear a thing.”

Ozan nodded, biting his lip. “Do you think Relomia was confused?”

They made it to a crossroads, more corridors heading to the left and right, or they had the option to continue onwards.

“Maybe… maybe they’re in the Shadow Realm?” Jahaan considered, coming to halt. He tried to focus on blurring the edges of this world and the Shadow Realm, as Sliske’s gift had allowed, but before he could make any progress, a screeching scream came from their right, chilling them both to the core.

Jahaan slashed both of his swords from their sheaths, while Ozan tentatively removed his newly acquired bow from around his shoulders.

Gulping, Jahaan ventured, “S...Sliske?”

The sound of beating wings fast encroached on them, the glint of glowing red eyes zooming their way. It was fight or flight, and the former lost by a landslide. Instantly, Ozan and Jahaan took off running in the opposite direction, but it was too late. The creature caught up to them, there were screams, and then darkness…

When Jahaan opened his eyes, he was lying face down on a dirty concrete floor. From the lack of weight surrounding him as he tried to pull himself to his feet, he deduced that he’d been stripped of his armour and weapons.

“Congratulations, Janny. You ‘saved’ me from my own escape attempt.”

Jahaan recognised that voice.

Nursing the back of his head, Jahaan could already feel the formations of a bruise. “Sliske? I got knocked out… what just happened? Where’s Ozan?”

“Well, I was having a jolly old time making my getaway, before I got blocked by  _ someone _ ,” Sliske chided, patronizingly. “Now we’re in a slightly less escapable dragonkin prison, and our hosts have learned a thing or two since last time, so now the guard won’t even talk to me. On the bright side, at least that means we can spend some quality time together!”

“Don’t act so fucking cheerful,” Jahaan snapped, whirling on Sliske, glad for the metal bars separating them. “Don’t you remember how you left me in those tunnels? How you nearly throttled me to death?!”

“Ah, but only  _ nearly _ , World Guardian,” Sliske pointed out, raising his chin so dark lidded eyes looked down upon Jahaan. “You should do well to remember that. Besides, you killed Zemmy, so what does it matter?”

“Yeah, but your brother and I nearly got taken out in the process!”

“Wahi would never let an oaf like Zemouregal get the best of him,” Sliske’s chuckle had a sharp edge to it. “And you, you had really begun to test my patience. Be thankful I left you there.”

“Thankful like I would be for a hole in my head,” Jahaan muttered under his breath. Rubbing his aching temples, he was already regretting his decision to save this incorrigible fool. So, to prevent their conversation spiralling further down the rabbit hole, Jahaan wanted to get back on track. “So, the dragonkin - do they have the Stone yet?”

“Not right now,” Sliske assured, nervously. It seemed as if he was just as happy with the change in topic. “But I’ve heard their mutterings… some of the things they’ve talked about doing to me, to make me reveal its location… it's gloriously disturbing. Sickeningly genius, in fact… but not when I’m on the receiving end of it.”

“Well we can’t let the dragonkin get their claws on the power of the Stone, and I need to find the others, so I’m going to try and find us a way out of here.”

Sliske sighed, wistfully. “My hero!”

Jahaan shot him a look. “Shut up, or I’ll change my mind.”

Ignoring the chorus of chuckles that followed, Jahaan went about trying to examine his cell and the surroundings for any potential weakness to exploit. The dragonkin guard was staring blankly into the middle distance, not paying much attention to anything.

_ If I can get the guard to come over here, I might be able to pickpocket a key or a weapon,  _ Jahaan thought, before grabbing onto his cell bars and angrily shouting out, “Hey! Scaly!”

Alas, the dragonkin ignored him.

“Hey, get over here!”

Again, he was ignored with not even a glance in his direction.

Sighing, Jahaan stepped back and reconsidered his options. Then, it came to him.  _ Maybe I can’t get him to come over here by myself, but I bet he’ll break up a brawl between Sliske and I… with the added bonus that I get to punch Sliske in the face _

Turning back over to Sliske, Jahaan gleefully, yet in a hushed tone, exclaimed, “Alright Sliske, I have an idea!”

“Great! Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, you have to let me punch you in the face.”

“...I am now slightly less enthused about this plan…”

“Just hear me out,” Jahaan insisted, explaining, “If we can brawl, the guard will hopefully come into the cells to break us up. That happens, and I can swipe a key or something to pick the lock.”

Sliske’s eyes lightened slightly at hearing the plan, but they were still narrow as he argued, “Riiiight, but how come you get to punch me in the face and not the other way around?”

“Because I don’t trust you to pull your punches.”

Sliske nodded, shrugging. “You know what? That’s fair.”

Reaching through the bars that separated them, Jahaan grabbed a fist full of Sliske’s cloak and yanked him viciously, slamming the Mahjarrat’s face into the steel, before throwing a fierce jab at him.

“Ow! That was right in the eye!” Sliske whined with a wince.

“Take that Sliske!” Jahaan growled, looking at the dragonkin out of the corner of his eye.

Seeing no response, he punched him again.

“Hey, what?! OW!” Sliske pulled himself free of Jahaan’s grip and dabbed the back of his hand to his mouth. “I think my lip’s bleeding!”

“He’s not reacting,” Jahaan fretted. “Maybe if I hit you again?”

Sliske countered, “Or maybe he’ll react better to this!”

As quick as anything, the Mahjarrat reached through the bars, grabbed ahold of Jahaan’s hair and slammed his head into the bars with painful force.

Laughing, Sliske surmised, “Well, looks like your plan didn’t work after all.”

After shooting Sliske a dirty look, Jahaan rubbed the side of his head and said, “I guess not, but I do have another idea.”

“Good, but I’m not getting hit again.”

“No need,  _ yet _ ,” Jahaan assured with the flash of a crooked smile. “I’ve got another idea to get him over here. Watch this.”

Walking over to the bars, Jahaan called out, “Hey you! Give us some food!”

Naturally, he was ignored, so he continued, “You know, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of nursery rhymes and a singing voice that can generously be described as  _ ‘grating’ _ . I also have capacious lungs and endless stamina. In combination, these things can make guarding me…  _ uncomfortable _ .”

Now, the guard at least turned an eye in his direction after this worrying development.

Challengingly, Jahaan threatened, “Give me some food or I’ll sing 'The Littlest Pyrefiend' at the top of my lungs on an endless loop.”

“Do it, you fool!” Sliske begged, desperately. “He’s not bluffing!”

With a grunt, the dragonkin went to fetch something from out of sight, then shuffled back over and slotted some grotesque looking food on a dirty plate through the bars, but too quickly to make a grab for the keys.

Seeing this, Sliske slumped against the wall. “You had one job…”

Jahaan contended, “I didn’t get the keys, but I think I can make a tool or a weapon out of this plate, as long as you can distract the guard long enough.”

“And how do you suppose I do that?”

Exasperatedly, Jahaan wearily replied, “I don’t know, Sliske! Tell him a story, insult him, seduce him - use your imagination!”

His eyes wide, Sliske couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “SEDUCE him? Seduce the  _ dragonkin _ ? My, you really are one saucy devil, Janny.”

“Just do  _ something _ , Sliske,” Jahaan huffed. “I’m going to scrape this gunk down the drain.”

Shrugging, Sliske walked up to the front of his cell, cleared his throat and started, “Might I say, dear dragonkin, that your scales look  _ fabulous  _ in this light...”

When he forced the food down the drain, Jahaan noticed it fizz and bubble into an indescribable, gruesome mess below. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

“What now, Jahaan?” Sliske hissed from the corner of his mouth.

“Keep distracting the guard - I have an idea,” Jahaan whispered. “The food I scraped into the drain is reacting with whatever’s down there… if it’s acidic or volatile I might be able to use it to melt through the lock.”

Sliske gagged. “That’s… vile, but I guess desperate times and all that.”

Motioning for Sliske to get back to his distractions, Jahaan set to work. Firstly, he tried to sharpen the edge of the plate on a brick, but instead, the loose brick popped out of the wall and the plate broke in half.

Meanwhile, Sliske tried his luck with the dragonkin guard, who seemed to be growing increasingly uncomfortable. “I think there must be something wrong with my eyes, because I can't seem to take them off you.”

Biting his lip, Sliske turned aside to Jahaan and whispered, “Can you hurry up with whatever whacky scheme you're trying? This place is making me stir-crazy, and I’m worried my attempts at flirting might actually be effective…”

Rolling his eyes, Jahaan worked to grind an edge into the plate half, turning it into a crude blade, one that, unfortunately, he quickly realised would be ineffective against the dragonkin. Then, he cut a strip of cloth from the bedding - even this caused the fragile blade to crack - and tied it to the piece of fallen brick, creating a legendary weapon of unparalleled destruction.

After crafting the ludicrous flail, he looked around the near distance to see if it could actually come in handy, or if all his DIY efforts had been in vain. When he saw the contents of the shelves next to Sliske’s cell, he had an idea.

Motioning Sliske over, he stated, “I need you to get me that vial off the shelf over there.”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“With this,” Jahaan presented him with the flail. Sliske did not look impressed.

“Really? This is the best the infamous ‘World Guardian’ can come up with?”

“Right now, yes. So just get on with it.”

With an exasperated sigh, Sliske relented. “Fine, fine! Give me your ridiculous brick-on-a-rope and let’s get on with this.”

Visually locking onto his target, Sliske launched one end of the flail over the top of his cell bars and towards the potion. Miraculously, it lassoed its target, and once a tighter grip was applied, Sliske snapped it towards him and caught the potion as it flew through the air.

Jahaan couldn’t help but be impressed as the vial was slipped into his hands. The dragonkin, on the other hand, less so. Irritated by the motions, it grumbled, stalked over to Sliske’s cell, and threw the door open with a high pitched groan.

Edging backwards, Sliske held his hands up in defence. “Hey now, let’s be reasonable and-”

A punch across Sliske’s jaw cut the words from his throat. Cowering down, Sliske waited the beating out, hissing in pain with each strike. Fortunately, the dragonkin didn’t seem to press about what Sliske was doing, and he didn’t see the potion Jahaan was concealing behind his back. He also didn’t notice Jahaan subtly reach through the bars separating them and snagging a pouch from his cloak pocket. Peeking inside, he noted it contained small, white crystals, ones that Jahaan recognised. However, the keys were unfortunately out of reach on the other side of the dragonkin’s belt, but the crystals would do for now.

_ Some guard he is. Maybe he just fancied roughing Sliske up a little? Who could blame him. _

Eventually, the dragonkin got bored and trudged away from the cell, leaving Sliske a bloodied and battered mess slumped against his cell wall.

“My face!” he picked himself up, wincing at the twinges of pain it induced. “Why is everyone hitting me in the face today?”

“Karma?”

Sliske shot him a look. “What was that, World Guardian?”

“Nothing, nothing...

Clutching his stomach, Sliske fumbled with a long and rough piece of fabric in his fingers. “In other news, I tore a strip of cloth from his robe. At least I can use it to bind my wounds.”

Jahaan winced. “Actually, I might need that.”

Sliske’s shoulders sagged. “Might or  _ do _ ? Because, you know, facial wounds and such.”

“I’m going to go with ‘do’. Turns out the potion you swiped and the crystals I lifted from the dragonkin are reagents, which I’m pretty sure I can use to make acid in the latrine. And I need the strip to make a facemask to stop myself from inhaling deadly fumes.”

“Well, look at you, the chemist,” Sliske drawled. “You’ve been spending too much time with the druids in Taverley, haven’t you? Well, fine, have the cloth, but this plan of yours better work.”

After taking the cloth strip from a reluctant Sliske, Jahaan tied it around his mouth and nose. Carefully, Jahaan poured the potion into the latrine, causing the slop below to change into a vivid green. Into this mix he added the crystals, and everything began hissing and smoking, with the stone of the latrine pitting visibly around the 'water' level. From the way it was reacting, it looked like it would make short work of the lock, but Jahaan realised he needed something to get the acid out without burning his hand off.

Coughing violently, Sliske pressed himself against the far wall of his cell, trying to pull his robe up over his nose. “Are you brewing RUM over there, Jahaan?!”

“Not quite,” the cloth strip wasn’t as effective as Jahaan had hoped, and he was feeling rather lightheaded. “I hope the dragonkin can’t smell this.”

Picking up the empty vial, Jahaan held his breath and tentatively removed the cloth strip protection. Thankfully he didn’t immediately knock himself out with the fumes, and in imitation of his amazing brick-on-a-rope, he tied the cloth strip around the neck of the bottle, ready to collect the acid. Dipping the bottle into the latrine, Jahaan filled it with acid and delicately pulled it out again. Just in time, too, as the cloth around the neck was eaten away to uselessness.

“I have the acid,” Jahaan whispered, subtly showing Sliske the vial of corrosive liquid.

“Great, let's get out of here.”

“Not yet - I need you to distract the guard one more time.”

Sliske growled, sternly, “I am not getting punched again!”

A small smile tugging on his lips, Jahaan explained, “You don't need to antagonise him. Just take this plate and redirect the light at him. I don't think he'll come in here and attack you, he'll likely just look away to stop being annoyed. Besides, if he does attack you, I'll throw this vial of acid at him.”

Jahaan had no intention of wasting the acid on saving Sliske from a beating, but the Mahjarrat bought it regardless.

With a huff, Sliske begrudgingly relented, “Fine, give me the plate.”

With the plate half, Sliske angled it to use what meager light the room had to his advantage, casting a bright beam at the dragonkin guard. Annoyed, the dragonkin turned away.

“Well he doesn't seem to like being blinded,” Sliske remarked. “And he hasn't come in here yet. So there’s that.”

“Huh. I didn’t think that would actually work.”

“So you thought he’d come to beat me again?”

“I thought it was seventy-thirty in favour.”

“Thanks, Janny. Anyways, don't you have a lock to melt?

“Good point. Back in a second.”

When Jahaan used the vial of acid on the cell door, the acid hissed quietly into the locking mechanism, which emerged from the bottom of the lock in a greasy, metal sludge. When his lock was no more, he handed the rest of the vial to Sliske, who proceeded to melt his lock in the same fashion.

“Sliske, let’s get out of here. If we zig-zag around him, I bet we can dodge the guard. Or, maybe, we can get some more acid and throw it at him. Or perhaps we-”

Chuckling, Sliske interjected, “Slow down, Janny. You’ll give yourself a stitch.”

“Well, we’re in a bit of a rush here,” Jahaan hissed, nervously eying the guard. “We have to get Ozan and Ariane, and take the Stone back from the dragonkin!”

Straightening up, Sliske’s demeanour changed. He seemed much calmer now. Worryingly so. “The hostages are fine, Jahaan.”

“Sliske, what are you talking about, the dragonkin have them!”

Sliske raised an eyebrow. “Do they?”

“Yes, you told me they-” finally, it hit him. Jahaan’s shoulders straightened, and his face went blank. “...and now I am on the same page. You lied to me.”

“Oh yes,” Slike smirked, smugly.

“The dragonkin don't have the hostages?”

“Nope. That isn't even a real dragonkin out there. It's just a wight in a costume.”

Jahaan regarded the dragonkin once more. “It's a pretty elaborate costume.”

“I know, right? I didn't even have to make it, he just had one!”

“And you were never kidnapped?”

“Nope,” Sliske grinned. “I just grabbed a bunch of people for my scheme and got my fangirl to lure you in. And let me say, your performance was exemplary. I was on the edge of my seat the whole time!”

Jahaan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Sliske, I am going to leave now.”

“But what about the hostages, hm?” Sliske queried with a victorious undertone.

"You've had your fun, you got me here - now you can let them go," Jahaan’s voice was an unsteady mix between a demand and a plea. There was a darkness behind Sliske's eyes, however, one that Jahaan recognised. It made him uneasy, set him on edge.

"Ah, I think I'll hang onto them for a little while longer. You see, I have a bit of entertainment in mind, and I fear my stellar company isn't quite enough of an incentive to make you stick around. Now, if we're quite finished, join me through that door and find out why I brought you here. Oh, and don’t worry, all that precious armour Azzy so kindly gifted you is safe and sound; my brother’s little humble abode is finally cluttered with something other than dusty tomes. I just needed to level the playing field, is all. All in the name of sportsmanship, I assure you.”

With a click of his fingers, Sliske teleported away.

Leaning back against the cell wall, Jahaan exhaled deeply, regretting every single decision he’d made today. Except one. “Damnit Sliske… I’m so glad I punched you…”


	3. Method of Madness

Leaving the wight-turned-dragonkin staring blankly into the distance behind him, Jahaan walked through into the next chamber. There, it wasn’t just Ozan and Ariane who he saw. No, alongside the huddled up couple were Major Mary Rancour, Sir Tendeth, and Idria - one of the Guardians of Armadyl.

“Sliske got you all too, huh?” Jahaan drawled, exchanging a small nod of greeting to the Major, who looked just as worldweary as Jahaan sounded. “Is everyone alright?”

Nodding, Idria assured, “Yes, the Brothers have been guarding us, but we’re okay. Do you know what this is about?”

“I can shed some light on that,” Sliske faded into view, looming over the gathered group.

Mary Rancour snapped around, heatedly demanding, “Sliske! Release us all at once!”

“No! I will release you gradually!”

The Major blinked. “...what?”

“While you’re trying to figure that one out, this is how this is going to go,” Sliske started wringing his hands, his voice developing a wicked overtone. “As you may have realised, we are no longer in Daemonheim. I welcome you all to my new humble abode, after the Zamorakians made a mess of my last one. Jahaan here is our guest of honour, and you’re all going to help him through these little trials of mine. You’ll find out the details as we go, but I’ve put a lot of thought into them, so I do hope you have fun!”

Utterly baffled, Jahaan shook his head and replied, “Why do you think I'll do this, Sliske? This is madness! Worse, this is nonsense! What is the point of all this? Just to get me to jump through hoops?”

“In reverse order: not exactly, it's a secret, no it isn't, it kind of is… and because I'll kill more of the hostages if you don't.”

Jahaan faltered. “M-More of...?”

Sliske raised an arm; the cowering Sir Tendeth screamed as he was lifted into the air, surrounded by a purple aura. After a couple of seconds of being held up, he dropped dead.

“By the gods!” Mary Racour gasped, stumbling backwards. Even Idria, normally courageous to the point of being foolhardy, had to reconsider intervention. She was powerless without her rune stones, after all.

Jahaan watched the corpse fall to the ground with a dull thump, and a thick lump rose in his throat. "Sliske..." 

Unphased by the horror he’d just inflicted, Sliske continued, “You see, there is a reason for all this, Jahaan. Two, in fact. The one you'll get now is that I'll present the Staff of Armadyl to you when you are done.”

Idria’s head shot up, fully alert. “You’ll what?!”

“I’ll give him the Staff of Armadyl,” Sliske reiterated, smiling innocently at Jahaan. “You see, soon the Staff of Armadyl would have outlived its usefulness for me. So, here’s the deal: play along with my games, and it’s yours, to go all stabby-stabby on the gods if you so wish. You might liven up this dull period of my contest, after all. Plus, your little friends can go free, as an added bonus. What do you say?”

Jahaan’s eyes examined all the hostages carefully, apprehensively awaiting his response. He didn’t trust Sliske to be true to his word on this, naturally. He didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. However, he also realised that there was no choice but to play along for now in the hopes that an escape opportunity would arise later down the line.

Sighing, Jahaan answered, “I have no choice. I'll play your stupid game.”

“My game isn't stupid, Jahaan. You'll see that very quickly. Now, there’s the door, so let's get moving!”

Sliske teleported away. After he did, Ozan rushed up to Jahaan and, in a hushed tone, asked, “Are you sure about this, Jahaan?”

“Not even slightly,” Jahaan gravely responded. “But we don't have much of a choice right now.”

To the group, he ushered them to come closer before he quietly said, “Everyone, keep your eyes out for a way to escape as we progress. The sooner we can get out of here, the better.”

When the group entered the large expanse Sliske had directed them to, they saw what looked like an arena. A fighting pit, more like. Desolate and unmaintained from centuries of abandonment.

_ Where the fuck are we? _ Jahaan wondered to himself, gazing at the ancient architecture. However, his curiosity was cut short like a bullet to the chest when he saw the other residents Sliske had summoned down in the pit.

They were six figures he recognised all too well, faces that were etched into his mind like carvings on a tree, determined to stand the test of time, to outlive him and all his other memories.

The ragged and torn clothing, along with the tangled mess of brunette hair that covered his blue eyes. He was exactly how Jahaan had found him that day in the cave. Cyrius.

Short and with an expression of perpetual annoyance, the grey haired gnome stood with his chest out and proud, defiant to the end. Hazelmere.

Covered in grey robes, he looked empty without the cocoon of steel armour protecting him, but his stoic expression was stronger than any shield. Turael.

Sporting a pompously flamboyant green hat that only someone like him could pull off, coupled with a perfectly trimmed moustache. Harrallak.

Dark red skin protruded from the slashes in his shirt, exposing the scaly flesh below. He looked completely unphased by the unfamiliar surroundings, ready to take on the world all over again. Mazchna.

Her beige robes covered her from head to toe, strands of ginger hair poking out from the sides of the hood, a fringe covering one of her steely green eyes. Lassyai.

Yes, Jahaan recognised them instantly, but they were all paler than normal, and they looked slightly… hollow.

“Lassyai!” Idria cried out, beginning to rush towards her fellow Guardian of Armadyl, until the blade of Dharok’s greataxe barred her journey.

Like he’d seen a ghost, Jahaan stumbled backwards, knocking into Ozan, who sported a similar expression of confused horror. “H-How are you all here?!”

“I can answer that,” Sliske’s self-satisfied voice echoed around them. “You see, I ‘borrowed’ these souls for today’s proceedings. Iccy’s going to be FURIOUS - I wish I could see the look on his face!”

“Jahaan!” Cyrius called out, a heart-melting smile on his battered-looking face. “Ozan! I’m so glad you’re both still alive.”

Jahaan felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. “Cyrius… all of you… I thought I’d never see you again...”

“Death is a great uniter,” Harrallack commented, dryly. “Then again, it seems ‘undeath’ is as well…”

Always straight to the point, Mazchna asked, “Do you know why we are here? Or how?”

“Yes, I was rather enjoying the afterlife,” Hazelmere cut in, irritably. “Then in a blink, I’m here. And it’s cold.”

“Oh don’t worry, you’ll be back in the afterlife before you know it,” Sliske assured, a darkness in the edges of his voice. “How you get there, however, will be up to Jahaan. Which brings me to why I brought you all here. You see, Jahaan, you always blamed yourself for the death of these fine warriors. It was never your fault, you know. Well, until now, that is.”

Jahaan gulped. “What do you mean?”

“It’s simple, really,” Sliske continued, a wicked grin slashed onto his face. “These lovely men and women want to return to the afterlife. You’re going to help them get there. To do that, all you have to do is put them back to rest…”

Fear crept into Jahaan’s tone. “What do you mean by ‘put them back to rest’?”

Sighing, Sliske rolled his eyes. “Honestly, do I have to spell everything out to you? You’re going to have to kill them, Janny. One by one.”

Jahaan’s face was a picture of disgust. “I’m not doing that!”

“Oh I think you will, for if you don’t kill them, the Brothers will. Trust me, they’ll make it much more painful than you ever would. Whether they get a quick and merciful re-death is entirely up to you."

The shock subsided once Sliske’s words sunk in, replaced instead by something much more tangible, much more familiar: anger.

Rounding to where Sliske was perched, Jahaan gripped his fists into tight balls, teeth clenched so tightly they felt like they could shatter at any moment. “SLISKE!” he roared, saliva spitting uncontrollably, like venom from a rabid animal. “RELEASE THEM BACK TO THE AFTERLIFE NOW!”

Sliske’s response was deadly, bone-chillingly calm. “I already told you how to return them to the afterlife. There’s no need to yell.”

Before Sliske could even get the last syllable out, Jahaan had already began storming towards the stand inhabited by the Mahjarrat, fully intending to scale the brick work with his bare hands if he had to. However, the sudden shriek from behind him stopped him dead. Spinning around, Jahaan saw Guthan had the razor-edge of his spear tight against Ariane’s jugular, who flinched away in terror. In a flash, the six warriors had charged forwards, but a conjuring of shadow binds kept them in their places.

“Leave her alone!” Ozan cried, charging towards Guthan, but Torag knocked him to the ground, shattering his left ankle with one of his hammers.

The sickening crunch of the bone and Ozan’s subsequent scream made Jahaan quiver. Holding his hands up slightly, Jahaan tried to ease his shaking as he turned back to Sliske and stuttered, “O-Okay… okay I-I’m calm. P-Please don’t hurt him again.”

Smugly, Sliske replied, “I thought you would have figured this out by now: whoever gets hurt is entirely up to  _ you _ . Understand?”

Nodding feverously, Jahaan agreed. “Yes, yes I understand. Please, don’t hurt them anymore. Please.”

Satisfied, Sliske nodded his head towards Guthan. The Brother released Ariane, and she immediately rushed to Ozan’s side.

Fighting his restraints, Tureal roared, “Sorcerer! Release us or pay the price!”

With a grin slashed into his face like it was carved by a crude blade, Sliske retorted, “I don’t think you’re in any position to make threats, Tureal. After all, you couldn’t even stop poor little Lucien, and I’m rather certain I’ve far surpassed his power by now.”

Huffing, Hazelmere loudly grumbled, “Can someone PLEASE tell me what is going on here?”

Lassyai blew a stray clump of ginger hair out from her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? He,” she jerked her head towards Sliske’s perch. “Is one of those Mahjarrat bastards, like Lucien. Sadistic, all of them. And he’s stolen the Staff of Armadyl!”

“But why?!” Hazelmere persisted, “What is going on?!”

“ENOUGH!” Sliske fiercely cut in, hushing the room to silence. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he rounded on the six warriors. “By the gods, I’m surprised you didn’t bicker Lucien to death. And here you were supposed to be Gielinor’s best and brightest. But the World Guardian knows what’s going on, don’t you, Janny?”

Through it all, however, Cyrius’ eyes had never left Jahaan. The World Guardian had been staring numbly into space until a broken murmur from Cyrius broke him out of his stupor. “Jahaan…?”

Gulping, Jahaan’s voice was fractured as he quietly explained. “This is Sliske. He wants to hurt me by getting me to hurt you. I don’t know why.”

_ Betrayed…  _ the notion danced around in Jahaan’s mind, conjuring nausea in his stomach and bile in his throat. He wasn’t angry now - he was too tired for that. Instead, he was more…  _ heartbroken _ .

Seeing his old friends. Seeing Ozan hurt and scared. Knowing what he had to do. Not knowing what else was to come. Not being in control of a damn thing.

And, above all, not knowing  _ why _ .

“Just do it Jahaan,” Mary Rancour urged, anger biting into her frustration. “They’re already dead - it’s not like you’re actually killing them or anything. The sooner this is over, the sooner we can leave.”

“Yes, do it, World Guardian,” Sliske malevolently echoed, waving away the restraints of the warriors as he did so. He motioned to Verac and Karil; the former handed Jahaan a blade, thin like a kitchen knife, while the latter aimed his crossbow at Idria. “Or do you need further encouragement?”

Weighing up the blade in his hand, he turned towards the warriors, all regarding him with a cocktail of confusion and apprehension.

Unsurprisingly, Hazelmere was the first to speak. “Well, get on with it then! What do I care if you kill me again? I just want to go back to the peace and quiet.”

Sniffing a laugh, Turael turned a challenging glance to Sliske as he added, “Yeah, means nothing to me. Have at it, Jahaan.”

The others cut in with similar resistant barbs, focused on either trying to rattle Sliske, calm Jahaan’s nerves, or perhaps both.

Jahaan knew they didn’t fully comprehend what was going on, or why, or even how. But he recognised the main thing, and that was they were doing in death what they always did in life - they were supporting their comrade.

Despite everything, he forced a weak, defiant smile. “Your plan backfired, Sliske. You’ve given me the chance to do something I’ve wanted to do for years. You’ve allowed me to say goodbye.”

But as the blade bit down on Hazelmere’s thin skin and he looked deep into those blue eyes, the fear and nerves and sickness all came flooding back. Defiance had crumbled, but that was internally. Externally, he tried his damn best to keep his resolve steady. Then again, the hesitation no doubt gave it away.

He didn’t want to give Sliske the satisfaction of watching him break.

“Hurry up,” Hazelmere grumbled; Jahaan knew it was for his sake, not out of genuine annoyance. This was the only way Hazelmere knew how to be supportive. “My feet are aching, and I had tea brewing.”

Sniffing a faint chuckle, Jahaan whispered, “Goodbye, Hazelmere.”

In one swift motion, the first deed was done. There wasn’t much in the way of blood, but the way his body crumpled to the ground, a dull and lifeless thud, brought back the painful vision of the first time he saw Hazelmere fall.

_ Mustn’t give Sliske the satisfaction,  _ Jahaan reminded himself, swallowing hard and blinking back the salty tears threatening the edges of his eyes as he moved onto Turael, then Harrallak, then Mazchna, then Lassyai.

The last was Cyrius.

_ He looks just as beautiful as he always did, _ Jahaan found himself ruminating, gazing into his warm blue eyes through blurred vision. Blinking himself back into clarity, a few stray tears escaped down his cheek, and he didn’t have the will to brush them away. Cyrius didn’t give him a look of pity, though. His serene smile encapsulated his contentment as he said, “Do you remember that trip we took to Baxtorian Falls? We camped out there for days, watching the leaping salmon and trout dancing through the air.”

This thought broke Jahaan; he choked back a sob, trying to mask it inside a laugh. “How could I forget? You burnt everything we caught.”

Cyrius chuckled now, a full-bodied chuckle filled with warmth and comfort. “Do you remember how we got back down the waterfall?”

Jahaan felt like his heart momentarily stopped. “I-I do…” he stammered out, swallowing down the large lump in his throat.

Cyrius looked on the brink of tears now. “I was so scared of jumping in that whirlpool. You told me people did it all the time and lived to tell the tale, but still. Remember how you took my hand, and you led me to the bridge,” Cyrius reached out and lightly took Jahaan’s hand in his, the one with the knife. “If you hadn’t held onto me I swear I would have chickened out. Tell me, honestly, were you sure we were going to make it?”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Jahaan confessed, “Honestly? I guess not.”

“Me neither,” Cyrius replied. Jahaan could see his own reflection through the water in Cyrius’ eyes. “But you know what? I didn’t care. If we hadn’t made it out, I wouldn’t have cared, because right there and then, everything was perfect.”

Cyrius wrapped Jahaan’s fingers around his own. “Because  _ you  _ are perfect.”

Suddenly, Cyrius leant forward and planted a deep kiss on Jahaan’s lips. But before Jahaan could even register what was happening, Cyrius pulled away, and he had taken the dagger with him.

Jahaan barely opened his mouth before Cyrius slit his own throat with the blade.

When Jahaan climbed the ramp out of the pit, Sliske was there to greet him, clapping slowly. “Good show, Janny. Good show indeed!”

Jahaan didn’t stop, he just stormed right past Sliske and towards the entrance to the next chamber.

The doors creaked open slowly, allowing Jahaan to enter. When they closed behind him again, he leant back against the door and tried to steady his breathing. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so he clenched them into balled fists, squeezing so hard his fingers started to turn purple. Chattering teeth thrummed in time with his rapid heartbeat, while waves of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

_ Calm down, _ Jahaan hissed internally,  _ There’s no time for this now. You have to focus. Pull yourself together _

Trying to swallow his feelings like bile in his throat, Jahaan prepared to embrace Sliske’s latest torture chamber. In front of him he saw two incredibly large god statues - one of Saradomin and one of Zamorak - with an eerily familiar looking gentleman attached to them. Blue and red chains held him taut in a crucifix position. Upon closer inspection, it appeared as if they were actually pulling him in both directions, agonisingly stretching his limbs. Above him towered a tall statue of a very sadistic looking Mahjarrat.

Hurrying over, Jahaan could only look on in abject horror as the man’s body shook against the tension, quivering in pain. But when he got close enough to see his face, Jahaan felt like throwing up. “You!”

Blonde hair, parted at the side, but messy, like a comb-over had gone wrong. Dark eyes, empty and lifeless. The man was an animated corpse.

And a long, thin scar across his throat.

“Sir Tenly,” Jahaan could actually feel the bile forming in his throat as he uttered the name. The former White Knight’s eyes fell on Jahaan, a flash of panic, desperation and anger all in one nanosecond.

“You! You’re the- ARGG!” the pain of the chains cut him off, but he was determined to finish, teeth gritted as he spat, “you’re the bastard that murdered me!”

Jahaan flinched backwards, eyes wide and bloodshot. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by another scream of pain from Sir Tenly.

Desperately, with a face creased and a brow strained, Sir Tenly hissed, “You have to help me - these things are tearing me apart!”

_ “Yes, they are, aren’t they, Sir Tenly?” _ Sliske taunted, his disembodied voice echoing around them.  _ “Jahaan, this one is very simple: Sir Tenly is being torn between two gods, Saradomin and Zamorak. You have to figure out which one doesn't have a claim on his soul and make them let go.” _

Sir Tenly’s arms struggled against the chains. “Saradomin is my lord and light! Aaaargh!”

_ “Then that's simple, isn't it? All you need is a key to Zamorak's chains. There is a machine for making them over in the other room where your friends are. They just need to put a hand into that little box to power the machine.” _

Already feeling like he knew the answer, Jahaan warily inquired, “And what happens when they do?”

The Mahjarrat replied,  _ “Ah. Well, if I told you, that’d ruin the surprise now, wouldn’t it?” _

Jahaan could practically  _ feel  _ Sliske’s smirk.

“Hurry! Do it! Free me!” Sir Tenly beseeched, “My vitals feel like they are being sliced apart!”

_ “Well, that might be because I hid the Saradomin key in there…” _

Jahaan choked on the lump in his throat. “What?!”

_ “If you think maybe Saradomin has less of a claim on Sir Tenly than he declares, all you have to do is dig it out. I’ll let the two of you have a nice reunion. Have fun!” _

Hesitantly, Jahaan edged closer to Sir Tenly, his eyes stinging with tears in them. The man whose life he cut short, all over a stupid insult.

Jahaan gulped.  _ Now he’s here, suffering again, thanks to me... _

He didn’t know what to do; his mouth hung open like a dumbstruck animal, his feet nailed to the floor. It wasn’t until another cry of pain from Sir Tenly snapped him out of his trance.

“Why is this happening to me?!” Sir Tenly wailed, face contorted with agony. “I was a good Saradominist! Who is this- ARG! This MONSTER?!”

Gulping, Jahaan tried to straighten his thoughts out enough to tentatively reply. “It’s not you. He’s… he’s doing this to get to me. It’s one of his sick games.”

_ "You're putting an unfair amount of the blame on me, don’t you think, Janny?” _ Sliske cackled, menacingly.  _ “After all, you were the one who sent this man to an early grave. How can you call me ‘sick’ or ‘twisted’ or evil’ when you’re nothing but a  _ cold-blooded murderer _ yourself, hm?” _

Sliske’s words cut through Jahaan like a knife through raw chicken, chilling his very core. It was Sir Tenly who pulled him out of his own mind.

“Who even is this monster?!” Sir Tenly exclaimed, but after another sharp hiss of pain, he corrected, “Nevermind, I don’t care - just get the Zamorak key and get me out of here!”

_ The Zamorak keys can only be forged from pain, while the ‘light’ of Saradomin tears Sir Tenly up inside,  _ Jahaan darkly realised, watching the corpse in front of him writhe in pain. His head was still reeling from Sliske’s previous truth.  _ What poetic irony, Sliske. _

“What are you still standing there for?!” Sir Tenly strained against his chains. “Get the key, NOW!”

Exhaling a shuddering breath, Jahaan declared, “O-Okay, I’ll get the Zamorak key.”

“Hurry! I don’t know how much more I can take!”

Resolving himself, Jahaan rushed over to the doorway separating himself from his comrades, who had been ushered into a small box-like room that extended into his chamber. He knew exactly what he was about to ask of his friends, but there was little choice in the matter. Pressing up against the door, he shouted through, “I need a Zamorak key.”

“A what key?” a puzzled Ozan called back.

“Long story short, Sir Tenly is strung between two statues,” Jahaan hurried to explain. "I need to unlock the statue of the god who does not have a claim on his soul. So, I need a Zamorak key.”

“Who’s Sir Tenly?” Major Mary Rancour inquired.

“Not important,” Ozan cut in, sparing Jahaan from having to explain himself, for which Jahaan was incredibly grateful. Small mercies, after all.

Back on track, Ariane asked, “How do we give you that key?”

Jahaan hesitated, the guilt setting in. “Is… is there a machine in there with you?”

Idria confirmed that there was.

“One of you needs to put your hand inside it. It’s… it’s going to hurt, but Sliske said that’s the only way to get the key.”

Hands on her hips, Idria protested, “Why do we need to get hurt over this Sir Tenly’s sake?”

“Because Sliske will hurt us all if you don’t.”

Idria countered, “But how do we know he won’t just hurt us anyway?”

Echoing around them, Sliske cheerily conceded,  _ “She has a good point. I am a terrible person.” _

Idria waved her hands to the sky, satisfied at being proven right yet again.

_ “The thing is, my dear, if you don’t play along, well…” _ Sliske warned,  _ “Remember dear old Sir Tendeth? Lived up to his name, didn’t he…” _

Biting his lip, Jahaan said, “I’m sorry guys. I need that key.”

Exhaling deeply, Ozan was the first to declare, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Ariane gave his hand a light, reassuring tug before he limped over to the machine. There was a little box that opened as he approached. A metal grill was on the bottom inside it.

Wincing, Ozan cautiously edged his hand inside, and the box clamped down to secure him there. 

The scream was earth-shattering as blue fire rose from the grill and engulfed Ozan’s hand.

When he was released, he fell to the ground clutching his scorched palm.

The sound made Jahaan feel sick, but he steeled himself through the waves of nausea. “Ozan, I’m so sorry…” he mumbled, but he doubted anyone could hear.

The next thing he knew, a key was placed through the letterbox-sized flap to his right.

The sounds of Sir Tenly’s wailing snapped Jahaan back into focus; scrabbling to grab the key, he hurried over to the Zamorak statue and tried to unlock it.

Tragically, the key broke in the lock.

“What’s happening?!” Sir Tenly demanded.

Jahaan heavy-heartedly called back, “The key broke!”

“Useless sandboy!” Sir Tenly hissed. “Do it right this time!”

The hairs on the back of Jahaan’s neck stood up and he froze, utterly, clenching the broken end of the key tightly into his fist. He couldn’t quite tell if it was in his imagination or not, but he swore he heard Sliske laughing.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he ignored Sir Tenly and went back over to the large door, shouting through, “Guys, the key broke in the lock. I’m so sorry, but I need another.”

Sighing, Mary Rancour volunteered, “Fine, I’ll do it.”

Despite telling herself she didn’t want to give Sliske the satisfaction of hearing her scream, her shriek was incredibly high pitched.

Taking the key, Jahaan went to unlock the Zamorak statue again. Alas…

“It broke again!” Jahaan exclaimed, his shoulders sagging.

“Are you kidding me?!” Sir Tenly replied. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“I’m not!” Jahaan snapped back, indignantly. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but out of anyone, he was glad it was someone like Sir Tenly up there and not one of his friends.

He walked significantly slower this time over to the door. “Hey guys, I need another key…”

Idria did not look impressed. “Of course you do.”

Shaking his head, Jahaan said, “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Grumbling, Idria replied, “I guess I’ll do it then.”

A hand, a box, a flame, a scream, a key.

And again, it broke in the lock.

Sliske’s voice floated tauntingly around them.  _ “Hmm it broke again… I wonder why that is, Sir Tenly…” _

The realisation Jahaan had been fighting back since the second key broke crawled across Jahaan’s skin. Walking up the steps to Sir Tenly, he somberly announced, “I need the Saradomin key, Sir Tenly. There’s no other way.”

“What are you talking about?” Sir Tenly gruffly protested. “The Saradomin key won't unlock the chains. All you'd be doing is symbolically removing my love for him, just like that monster wants!”

“I’m sorry… I have to…”

“NO!” Sir Tenly bellowed. “I am a White Knight of Saradomin! Get a Zamorak key and release me!”

Gulping, Jahaan stepped closer. “I’m sorry.”

“No! I follow my lord willingly!” Sir Tenly desperately resisted, his fearful eyes quivering.

Having to force his hand closer to Sir Tenly’s soft, undead stomach, Jahaan whispered, “I’m so sorry…”

With a sickening squelch, Jahaan’s fingers stabbed into Sir Tenly’s belly. As the knight writhed in torment, he felt his fingertips knock against something metallic.

“Mercy! Please, stop this torture!” Sir Tenly desperately begged, his head shooting around in all directions as his body convulsed with agony.

Jahaan was shaking, his heart breaking at the pained sobs of a proud knight, no matter how ignorant or rude that knight could be. Reaching in further, he felt his hand brush against dusty organs. The sensation made Jahaan gag.

“Please stop! You’re tearing me in half! ARRRRGGGG!”

Finally, Jahaan managed to hook two fingers onto the teeth of the key, but it didn’t budge easily. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he woefully declared, “Sir Tenly, I have to pull harder. I’m sorry.”

As he began to pull, Sir Tenly unleashed a blood-curdling scream. “ARRRRGGGG! Please stop the pain! My god, why are you letting this happen?!”

Jahaan felt the key catch on Sir Tenly’s ghostly insides as he pulled harder.

“Will the truth make it end?!“ Sir Tenly was in tears at this point, head hung low as he cried out, “ALRIGHT! I'm a Zamorakian! Now please, LET THIS END!” 

Finally, the key came free with a ‘slurp’, covered in whatever juices were left of Sir Tenly’s insides.

Refusing to give into his nausea at this second, Jahaan raced towards the Saradomin statue. Unsurprisingly, the key fit perfectly, unlocking Sir Tenly’s chains. As Sir Tenly swung loosely towards the Zamorak statue, the Saradomin statue toppled over backwards at the loss of contact, knocking a large hole in the wall behind it.

Satisfied that Sir Tenly was free, Jahaan realised nothing was holding him back now, and thus he threw up. A lot.

Once that was out of his system, and most of the goo had been wiped off his hand, Jahaan staggered back over to Sir Tenly, who had become free from all his chains now. “Are you alright?”

Clutching his stomach, Sir Tenly shot him a deadly glare. “You ripped a key from my chest and revealed my true Zamorakian faith, proving I’m a heretic. Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

Jahaan forced a hollow smile. “Sarcasm - that means you’re good to go.”

As quickly as he could, he rushed back over to his friends and hissed through the door, “Guys, are you alright? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, we’re holding up,” Ozan assured, but the shivering laced in his voice betrayed him. “What about you?”

“Sir Tenly’s free,” Jahaan dodged the question. “The fallen statue knocked out a part of the wall. I’m going to see if it leads to a way out. Can you guys keep Sliske busy while I do that?”

“We’ll try,” Idria replied, biting her lip. “Don’t be long though. If you get outside, bring reinforcements back with you. I don’t trust Sliske to keep his word about the Staff, but as long as we can corner him here, we have a chance of getting it back.”

Mary Rancour concurred, “Indeed. We have to use this situation to our advantage. Good luck out there, Jahaan.”

“Same to you, everyone,” Jahaan replied, but he hesitated before leaving. He wanted to say something else, something reassuring and confident to try and keep everyone’s head above water. But knowing he’d no doubt sound as scared as he felt, he held back.

With that, Jahaan hurried over to the hole in the wall, slipping behind cover wherever he could, and entered the caved in tunnel. From the lack of protest on Sliske’s part, he seemed to get away with it.


	4. Sliske's Secrets

Climbing over the broken rock fragments led Jahaan to a small corridor, two wooden doors on either side and one right at the end. Taking a random guess, Jahaan went from the one furthest away. Fortunately for him, it wasn’t just a broom closet or a wardrobe.

No, it looked like Jahaan had hit the jackpot here.

“Whoa…” Jahaan breathed, taking in the cluttered room. Blackboards, potions, globes, drawings, books and manic scribblings…

_ This must be Sliske’s laboratory… _

The blackboard had equations that Jahaan couldn’t even begin to understand; he recognised a handful of letters and numbers in the common alphabet, but mixed in them seemingly randomly were rune graphics, ancient scripture, and dozens of symbols that meant nothing to Jahaan. The majority were scribbled roughly in white chalk, half crossed out with increasing passion as the board became more and more crowded the further down Sliske wrote.

The blackboard next to it was a little more structured and simplified with a Vitruvian Man drawing in the style of a Mahjarrat taking up the majority of the space. From various points on the body, arrows were protruding, such as from the chest and forehead crystals, though their labels were written in an unfamiliar tongue. It didn’t even look Infernal. From the rough mess of harsh consonants, Jahaan guessed it could be Freneskaen. 

Behind a red velvet curtain stood an oak bookshelf, packed to the brim with countless novels, manuscripts, textbooks and research papers. Tracing his fingers along the spines, Jahaan stopped at one that was jutting out of the shelf, unable to squeeze back neatly into its place due to just how many books were stacked there. Jahaan gathered it had been read and returned to its place rather recently, and so he slid it from its position and examined the cover.

_ ‘The Divine Delusion’, by Oreb, Magister of House Charron. _

Intrigued, Jahaan opened it up to a creased page and began to read…

_ The human soul is a tricky construct, more comprised of emotion than quantifiable elements. Yet it is most assuredly a real, measurable thing. This I have demonstrated several times in my experiments. _

_ There are various scholars that would argue that the strength of the soul is measured by one's devotion to a deity. That the worship of and adherence to the tenets of a powerful being of divine classification makes one's soul inherently more enriched and robust. I believe that this theory is naught but the prattle of clergy and the dogmatic response of those who themselves live their lives according to the whims of a god. Instead I propose that the soul has little actual relationship with the divine and is perhaps something entirely other. My extensive research suggests that the health and strength of one's soul comes from action and inspiration. It is my firm belief that the strongest souls belong to those who have made the most out of their lives, who have experienced everything that the world has to offer and braved the greatest of challenges. _

_ Furthermore, I posit that the soul is perhaps more closely linked to biology than theology, though certainly it falls outside the practice of conventional medicine. Elves have discovered the medical process of ‘organ transplants’, where the healthy organ of one being - usually deceased - is transferred into the body of another, replacing an organ that has stopped functioning. As you’d expect, there are certain conditions that have to be met for a transplant to work. So far, no successful transplant has occurred between different species or races. Therefore, a gnome could not donate, say, a kidney to a human. It’s all to do with proportions; the human body would simply not take it. Then there’s also the problem of compatibility, as the process is helped greatly if the two people are genetically identical or similar, so using relatives reduces the risk that the new body will reject the donated organ or, worse, attack it, thinking it is foreign. _

_ The same applies for soul transplants. If this process is to ever be done successfully, I believe the two participants have to be compatible in many ways, but whether that is some tangible compatibility, such as identical blood types, or something more abstract, like similar personalities, I cannot say with certainty. However, considering the soul is an essence instead of a tangible organ, there is nothing to say souls couldn't, theoretically, transfer between species. To serve what purpose, I cannot fathom. _

_ Then there comes the issue of extraction. From the little practical experimentation I have been able to undertake, I can hypothesise that a soul is much more malleable during periods of volatile emotions. For example, if a person is calm, their soul is stable within them. However, if a person is angry, hateful or distressed, their grip on their soul weakens, and thus is prone to outside forces. Therefore, if a soul is to be extracted from a living subject against their will, then placing them under conditions of extreme stress increases the likelihood of success. Of course, like anything ethereal, the process would be much simpler if the soul was given freely rather than taken by force. Some of these conditions might then be mitigated. _

_ My research, for obvious reasons, has not been allowed to spread outside these four walls, and with such secrecy comes limited funds, and less than willing participants. _

_ In conclusion, I believe that the soul, like the flesh, can be both harmed, healed and indeed extracted. Therefore, if one could find a compatible host, it could conceivably be possible to transfer the soul of one being into another. As for what effects this could have, I cannot say. _

_ I must continue my research... _

The last paragraph was underlined feverously.

Jahaan next turned his attention to Sliske’s desk. A notebook stood out for the block writing on the cover, black and ominous, with a slight spike to the edging of the letters:

_ ‘Death at Sea’, by Praefectus Praetorio Sliske _

When Jahaan opened it up, he saw that it was handwritten by Sliske. Fortunately Jahaan’s Infernal language studies hadn’t relented in his downtime, and thus he was able to understand most of what was being written. The longer, more scientific words he sometimes had to guess at, thankful for their similarities in many ways to the Common Tongue.

The notebook seemed to be used by Sliske to jot down ideas for a play. The opening section dealt with possible characters and a rough plot involving a sailor who witnesses a murder so terrible that it renders him mute. However, after a few dozen pages, it devolved into backstage gossip, excerpts from secret police files on the proposed actors, and tirades against the increasingly complicated plot.

After a short gap, the entries resumed, in a journal format.

_ It seems art may be imitating life! I had a chance encounter with Nabor this evening, which may hold the key to my current plot difficulties. It seems that he has received a new inmate to his little asylum, specifically a member of our navy, who has been struck insensible by some terrible injuries. I was almost bored to tears by the conversation - Nabor always was one of the dullest of the Mahjarrat - until that little nugget of information popped up. I may pay the place a visit tomorrow; an official inspection. That will pass a bit of time. Maybe seeing a wretch in a similar condition to the one I have been writing about will add a little realism to the scenes? _

_ Well that didn't help. _

_ My visit to the asylum has raised more questions than it answered. Nabor was almost fawningly open with his records, and it seems there is little to fear from his charges. I doubt many of them are capable of subversion at this point. Some are barely able to feed themselves. _

_ I eventually requested to see the sailor in question. Nabor took me to a chamber held apart from the others, and I inquired if the patient was dangerous. He replied that it was more for his own protection. The human was known to shout things that disturbed the other patients, agitating them greatly. Nabor claimed that no matter what he tried, the lunatic would not do anything but babble piteously, occasionally howling and braying in ways most unsettling. _

_ When I approached the cell, I found the human inside lying on a pallet of straw. I noticed that he was not bound, but was in a filthy condition and missing his left leg and right foot. On seeing me, he crawled on his belly across the flagstones and pulled himself up using the bars. His eyes were wild and hollow, darting like a cornered animal until they finally settled upon my own. Their darkness was captivating; I felt as if I was looking inside the shell of a man, someone beyond humanity and, simultaneously, so far below it. _

_ Then, he spoke. “I know you.” _

_ His thick accent betrayed his breeding. The words were growled, the venom masked only by his increased shivering. After assuring him that we had never met before, repeatedly I might add, as he was rather insistent, I asked him where it was he thought we had met. _

_ “The afterlife,” he replied wistfully, like he was recalling a fond memory. _

_ Clearly the man was delusional, but he was admittedly a fascinating specimen. So, I wanted to entertain his ramblings further, and explained that I could not go to an afterlife. _

_ “You have,” he insisted. Again, the past tense was used. “You will, once you take His soul. His soul is your key. Death is not the end, it is only the beginning!” _

_ Inquiring as to who this ‘Him’ was only seemed to horrify the patient. What he said next was… unusual. I cannot get the words out of my mind, nor the intensity with which he spoke them. _

_ “You don’t remember?! He was no more god than man, and no more man than god. He could not save us all! He only saved YOU!” _

_ Growing frustrated, I insisted he name the man he was referring to. _

_ Once he did, he wouldn’t stop, repeating it over and over again with increasing volume and desperation. “Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut! Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut! Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut!” _

_ Soon, there arose a hooting and wailing from the nearby cells. The inmates on this level began banging the bars, screaming and otherwise displaying their afflictions in a chorus of suffering, obviously agitated by the man’s disturbance. The pathetic human fell to the floor, weeping. As Nabor called for his orderlies to restore order, I returned to my office. Who is this ‘Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut’, and why is he so important to this crazed man? It seems my play will have to wait until I have answered these mysteries. _

_ I returned to the asylum to speak with Nabor and the sailor, only to find out that the latter was dead. There were no marks upon the body, and nobody was seen to enter or leave the cell. Curious. _

_ As for this Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut character, I have sent out agents to locate them, but no-one on record in the empire seems to go by that name. From the sounds of it, it likely originates from the Kharidian Lands. I shall have to widen my search net of agents if I am to follow up on this little enigma... _

The majority of pages after that entry were blank aside from a single entry containing Jahaan’s date of birth. As it was in the Common Tongue, Jahaan deduced it must have been written a lot more recently. Below the date of birth were the words:

_ Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut? Really? Is this the key at last? I must watch and see... _

Utterly freaked out, Jahaan closed the notebook in a hurry, backing away as if it was going to explode after reading. He darted his eyes around him, half-wanting someone to be there to confirm that, yes, he did just read that. With his curiosity giving him a crazed adrenaline rush, Jahaan hurriedly returned to examining the rest of the laboratory.

Potions and chemicals cluttered the shelves, residing in bottles and vials of various shapes and sizes, a technicolour cocktail recipe. Some sat atop piles of books, others held down documents. Most of their labels, if they had any, were faded from the passage of time, and Jahaan wasn’t about to taste test them to find out what they were.

Another small notebook on the tabletop caught Jahaan’s eye, perhaps from the beautiful aquamarine quill feather resting on top of it, starkly contrasting the black cover of the journal. Opening it up, Jahaan noted the handwriting was identical to that scrawled upon the blackboards, therefore it must have been written by Sliske. It too was in the Common Tongue.

Curiosity getting the better of him once more, he began to read...

_ I have changed the world. I have taken the status quo and I have smashed it to pieces and scattered the shards across Gielinor. The Staff - the Siphon - was practically gifted to me. The dragonkin, weak and pathetic, trapped in my little shadow web... and then the Staff was mine. It was so simple, almost laughably so, that I can barely consider it an achievement. _

_ I have changed the world. I have used the Siphon to slay one of the most powerful beings to ever walk Gielinor. The great Guthix, felled by my hand, by my whim… by my destiny. _

_ Guthix, in his dying breath, created something new. The World Guardian, they have come to be called. The breadcrumb trail I left for Jahaan worked far better than I could have ever imagined. _

“So he engineered all this?” Jahaan muttered dryly to himself, taking a deep breath.

At this point, the idea that Sliske had played a part in some events in his life no longer came as a surprise. He did, however, ponder just how far this particular ‘breadcrumb trail’ reached back to.

_ Did he influence Sir Tiffy? Commander Denulth? _

The following pages remarked upon the return of the gods, including derisive commentary about the Battle of Lumbridge and Armadyl’s slaying of Bandos. After that, Jahaan realised that several pages were missing, clearly torn out for some reason. A lot of the notebook became largely incomprehensible, with various strange diagrams doodled about the place. Most of the writing had been crossed out heavily.

Jahaan flicked through what remained, trying to find something he could decipher.

Then, right near the end, one last entry...

_ The time has come. I had hoped to resolve this without resorting to force, but he has left me no choice. Our agreement was abandoned by his reckless temperament. It would have been so much easier if he’d just played along. I could have had his soul, and he could have had eternal youth - a wight in my service, by my side...  _

_ Perhaps I have gotten too… close. I might even start to miss him. But not for long. The way that mortal lives, he would be dead within the next twenty years anyway. _

_ Fortunately, it seems as though we are more similar than I could have ever hoped. Just a few tweaks here and there, a nudge in the right direction, and he’ll be perfectly...  _ compatible _. I’ve researched this for too long to give up now. I’m so close. Too many test subjects have failed, countless souls shattered in my efforts. So here I am, pinning my last hope on the deranged ramblings of a madman. _

_ I have a plan. It might work, it might be the solution to my problem. I have most of the pieces right here and the rest I can easily obtain with only the slightest bit of subterfuge. _

_ Yes it will work. _

_ It has to... _

After returning the notebook to its place on the desk, one last thing caught Jahaan’s eye.

In the centre of the dark wooden floor, a mystic diagram had been painted in purple and white, glowing brightly, like light itself was luminating from the etchings. The outer circumference was comprised of two purple circles, while inside white and purple triangles mirrored one another. Right at the centre was another bright white circle drawn in runes of the ancient magicks. Above it, floating around head height, a cluster of fizzing energy correlating into a globe shape.

When Jahaan approached it, he could feel his bones tingling from the magic it emitted.

Against his better judgement, he had the strongest urge to reach out and touch it…

The world around him was foggy and clouded, like he was seeing everything through a bowl of misty water. However, he could make out Sliske close to his vantage point, clutching onto the Staff of Armadyl and facing a large sphere that pulsed and crackled with energy.

The Stone of Jas.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Sliske remarked, wistfully.

_ “What is” _

_ “Beauty?” _

That mysterious voice was unfamiliar to Jahaan. It was hollow, yet deep. Impassive, yet commanding. Inhuman, certainly, but like no race Jahaan had ever encountered. The voice echoed and faded, swishing through his mind like calm waves on the shore.

Jahaan couldn’t be sure if it was even real. Perhaps it was a conjuring of his imagination?

However, that theory died when Sliske turned towards Jahaan’s vantage point and replied to its question, “Beauty… ahhh, beauty is what makes the world bearable. Without it, life is grey and empty. Beauty evokes pure emotion, and true beauty can bring empires to ruin or inspire the most evil men to heroic deeds.”

_ “Irrelevant,”  _ the voice stated, unwavering in its dull conviction.

Sighing, Sliske replied, “Yes… I suppose you think it is.”

Turning back to face the Stone, Sliske continued, “Thank you for the tip-off about this delightful thing by the way. I would never have found it on my own. It never occurred to me that the Staff could be used in such a fashion.”

_ “The Siphon” _

_ “Has many uses” _

“Yes, and the look on that dragonkin's face was hilarious! To think, those fools just cast the Stone away, hoping that no-one would find it. They must have known it couldn’t be hidden forever. Something like this… it wants to be found. It needs a user, false or otherwise.”

The voice did not seem to care for Sliske’s poetic ramblings, instead directly asking,

_ “Will this” _

_ “Bring them?” _

Sliske grinned. “Oh yes, very much so. The siren song of the Stone will bring all of the gods together. It will be a gathering like no other, a monumental occasion that everyone will yearn to observe.”

_ “Pointless words” _

_ “Make it happen” _

Narrowing his eyes, Sliske bit his tongue to keep the sharpness from his voice. “Yes, of course. I live to serve…”

When the world rippled back into reality, Jahaan fought to get the echoed voice of the mysterious being out of his mind. It seemed to seep through him like ink, cloying and domineering. It was only once he realised just how long he’d been that he snapped himself back into focus.

Just as he was about to leave, however, he saw something glint underneath a pile of messed up papers. Pushing the papers to one side, Jahaan uncovered an ornate letter opener, its handle delicately carved out of elder logs. The blade was thin and fragile, probably made out of nothing better than light steel. Such a weapon wouldn’t be able to pierce through Sliske’s armoured robes - heck, it probably couldn’t even stab through his thick skin - but the edge was sharp; if he could slice somewhere delicate, or perhaps use it on one of the Barrows Brothers at the right time…

These thoughts were enough to convince Jahaan to tuck the blade into the back of his belt, rolling his shirt over it to conceal its presence.


	5. A Malice Unleashed

_ Meanwhile… _

“So we need to make sure Sliske doesn’t notice Jahaan’s missing?” Ariane surmised.

Rolling her eyes, Idria remarked, “How are we supposed to do that? The creep doesn’t take his eyes off him…”

“Leave it to me,” Ozan assured, leading them all into the next chamber, trying not to let it show just how exhausted he was. His injuries were flaring up again, pain pulsing inside his bandages, and the stress of the situation threatened to bring forth a migraine. His shattered ankle was a new kind of agony, making the simple act of standing up a tremendous effort, but he tried not to let it show. There was no time for wallowing or self-pitying, Ozan told himself, knowing he had to do everything he could to get Ariane and the others out of there safely.

He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to Ariane on his watch.

Unfortunately, he had very little to work with under the circumstances. Like Jahaan, he had been stripped of all his weapons. Nevertheless, Ozan’s smart mouth was as deadly as any bow he could wield, succeeding in getting him both in and out of trouble on many an occasion. So, he thought it best to utilise it here, hoping he could keep Sliske talking long enough to help out Jahaan. Any time he bought was a victory.

Already suspicious, Sliske peered over Ozan’s shoulder, glaring through the group. “Where’s Jahaan?”

“He’s still throwing up after the whole Sir Tenly thing,” Ozan crossed his arms over his chest, hoping his conviction came across as genuine and not a facade. “Give the guy a break.”

It seemed to take, for Sliske rolled his eyes and chuckled, “You humans with your fragile consistencies. Fine, fine. I suppose we’re in no rush.”

Sizing Ozan up with a keen eye, Sliske said, “We haven’t properly been introduced, you and I.”

“It feels like we have, though,” Ozan replied, carefully dangling out his words like they were fishing line. “I know a lot about you from what Jahaan has said. Or, in some ways, what he  _ hasn’t _ said.”

Ozan had met a ridiculous amount of characters on his travels, a fair few of which he needed on his side for one reason or another. To accomplish this, each had to be handled in the right way in order to not let the stove pot boil over, so to speak. It was like picking a lock - find what makes them tick, don’t apply too much pressure, be patient. From what he gathered, Sliske was one wrong step away from disengaging completely, and he needed to give Jahaan more time. So, Ozan knew to keep it fairly light, to not back the Mahjarrat into a corner, and to favour simpler questions over the more pressing, problematic ones.

He also needed to keep Sliske entertained, curious and baited. In many ways, it was like keeping a small child distracted, though with vastly different consequences for failure.

It seemed to work, for an intrigued glimmer shone across Sliske’s features. “Oh really? Do tell.”

“Well, he spoke of you at the Ritual, the way you saved his life,” Ozan began, carefully. “Then of course, the way you masqueraded as that archeologist to get inside Guthix’s chamber. You really made him paranoid with that one, you know.”

Friendly, colloquial, casual. Ozan had to keep Sliske relaxed, had to talk to him like he would anyone else. “He attacked me in a bar once thinking I was you. So that was nice,” Ozan allowed a light chuckle into his words, relaxing his stance.

“I know. I was there,” Sliske’s grin doubled in size.

Eyes wide, Ozan was legitimately surprised. “You’re kidding!”

“Not in the slightest!” Sliske assured, gleefully. “I had a great view of the show! Of course, Jahaan cottoned on soon enough and ruined the game, but it was fun while it lasted.”

Chuckling, Ozan remarked, “He can be a little dangerous with too much liquor in his system.”

“Ah, I know that too,” Sliske’s eyes flashed, casually rubbing his chin. “He’s an interesting specimen.”

“But he’s more than just a specimen to you, right?” Ozan’s tone was slightly hushed. He didn’t give much time for Sliske to formulate a response, continuing, “I mean, you were the one that got Jahaan and me out of harm’s way. I see what he sees in you.”

Crinkling his brow, Sliske’s tone became guarded, yet fused with curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s just say, there was a reason he kept that invitation box of yours all this time.”

Ozan was near certain this was exactly what Sliske wanted to hear. It kept him enraptured, at least, which was what they needed now.

Capitalising, Ozan tested the dangerous waters, wading in by asking, “With that in mind, why did you bring Cyrius to him?”

From the way Sliske’s expression changed, Ozan knew he’d made a mistake. “That is not your concern. Cyrius played the part that he needed to play.”

“You knew how Jahaan felt,” Ozan guessed. It wasn’t a stretch. “And you know what happened when he lost him. If you cared about him, why would you bring back such memories?”

Ozan knew he was losing the thread here, but his own anger was getting the best of him. He wanted - no, needed answers - and biting his tongue was becoming more painful than how his burn scars felt.

“We must confront our demons if we are to ever conquer them,” Sliske’s stance grew more guarded, his face slightly colder and more neutral. “We both know that Jahaan changed on the day that Cyrius and the others were killed. Gone were the days of monster slaying, scaling treacherous mountains and freeing comatose Mahjarrat from their pyramid prisons. No, he lost the light behind his eyes. Then, he found service in the Imperial Guard, fighting Bandos’ mindless beasts. While it was good to see him fighting instead of moping, the routine… ah, it grew so stale. It was counterproductive.”

“It was stability,” Ozan corrected, his eyes narrowing into slits. “It was what he needed.”

“Repetitive, tedious…” Sliske continued, as if Ozan hadn’t spoken at all. “No, he needed a change of scenery. So, I played my part and set the wheels in motion.”

“Let me guess, you got to Commander Denulth?”

“He was easy to persuade,” Sliske confirmed, wringing his palms together. “Everything fell into place after that.”

Ozan could see how pleased Sliske was with himself, his ego getting a generous boost as the conversation continued. “So you planned for him to become the World Guardian?”

“Ah,” Sliske clapped his hands together, long fingers pressing against each other to emit a soft squeak from the leather of his gloves. “That was more of an... unintended consequence. But a fortunate one, wouldn’t you agree?”   
Ozan bit his lip. “Fortunate? Not how I’d put it.”

“How would you put it, then?” Sliske went on to say, “It’s not everyone who gets to mix it up with Gielinor’s divine. And yours truly, of course. In many ways, he’s better than ever.”

Ozan caught onto the slight edge in Sliske’s voice, one that betrayed what the Mahjarrat was really thinking. It was clear that neither of them believed a word Sliske was saying.

Jahaan was a great fighter, a decent man and someone Guthix deemed worthy enough to declare Gielinor’s guardian. But Jahaan was now under pressure, too much of it. He could be volatile and reckless, and though he tried his best to hide it from everyone, Jahaan was fraying at the edges. He’d been thrown back into the adventuring world of his past too forcefully, and with too much at stake. That letter from Commander Denulth had sparked Jahaan’s undoing. Ozan knew it, and he was certain Sliske did too. The only one who seemed oblivious was Jahaan himself.

While they were conversing, Mary Rancour edged over towards Idria. Rancour had her arms huddled across her chest, hugging herself, despite trying to keep a steely resolve. “How much longer do you think Jahaan will be?”

“I don’t know,” Idria confessed, disheartenedly. “But we’ve got to buy him as much time as possible.”

“I wonder how many more of these sick games Sliske has planned for us.”

“Hopefully this’ll be the last,” Idria bit her lip. “I guess we'll just have to tough it out and help Jahaan as best we can.”

Mary Rancour responded by grumbling something under her breath; Idria could sense her distress, inquiring, “What’s the matter?”

“It’s just… That's kind of the point of all of this, isn't it? We're reduced to holding out for Jahaan to come swinging in and save us. We wouldn't even be here if Sliske wasn't so obsessed with him. Don't give me that look. I feel I have earned at least a little rant. Look, I lost my husband and two sons to the trolls. I have broken every bone in my body fighting those monsters. I've grown old and grey before my time, and for what? Sliske captures a magic stone, the gods return and now nobody cares about monsters killing villagers in Burthorpe. And even if they do, they turn to the 'World Guardian'. Not Major Rancour, who bled and struggled to keep them safe. I caught two guards the other day; both of them were slacking off in their duties. I reprimanded them, and do you know what they said? 'It's fine, Jahaan will take care of any trolls that get through’. I… I almost overreacted. It’s like they think he’s some sort of superhuman now. He’s just a man, no better than me, or you, or any of them.”

Idria considered this for a moment. “Wow. I had no idea you felt this way. I… I’m sorry. But I guess it puts it all in perspective.”

“What?”

Idria turned her gaze towards the Barrows Brothers, who were keeping silent guard around the edges of the chamber. “The way the Barrows Brothers sold out to Sliske all those years ago. Why settle for mediocrity all your life when you can lead a glorious crusade? Imagine how easily you could best the trolls with some of those weapons, or an army of wights?”

Mary Rancour’s half-hearted smile was wry. “Believe me, I’ve thought of it. But the price…”

“...Is never worth it,” Idria finished. With a genuine smile, she said, “It was good speaking to you, Major.”

“You too, Idria.”

By now, Ozan realised he was struggling to keep his words in check. Sliske was capable of bringing the worst out of Jahaan, and it seemed like Ozan suffered similar side effects from the Mahjarrat’s dark presence. Everything Sliske had put his best friend through, the world through… now culminating in the kidnapping of Ariane… Ozan’s mind was full of storm clouds, and he fought with everything he had to stop them from breaking open.

However, he didn’t last much longer, and having taken too long to formulate the right answer to Sliske’s latest question, the penny dropped.

“Come to think of it, where is Jahaan?” Sliske wondered, drawing out his words with a suspicious rattle.

“Uhhh… he’ll be here soon,” Ozan gulped, taking a tentative step backwards, wincing as he accidentally put the wrong amount of weight on his ankle. “What, can’t stand five minutes without him?”

He trailed off with a nervous laugh, but the second the words had come out of his mouth, his throat went dry. He knew he’d cut the wrong wire.

There was a beat of silence that seemed to last for a lifetime, causing the air around them all to turn thick and cloying.

As he cottoned on to Ozan’s plan, his sulphur eyes went wide before narrowing into slits; shadows converged around their master with malicious intent. “Oh you’re good, Ozan. Very good. But I’ve had enough of your stalling. Tell me where Jahaan is, or you’ll live to regret it, however briefly.”

“I’m here Sliske,” Jahaan announced, strolling into the chamber with as much confidence as he could muster.

Jahaan’s timing was impeccable; Ozan let out a shaky breath, trying not to let anyone know just how relieved he was to have the Mahjarrat’s eyes away from him, for now at least. But the relief didn’t last long as soon as he clocked that Jahaan had returned alone and unarmed.

At this rate, Ozan knew he’d have to try something drastic. So, when the Barrows Brothers were summoned to guard himself and the other hostages, Ozan made sure to shuffle next to Karil, who had a pouch of bolts just out of reach. Knowing that obtaining one of them could be a game changer, he waited for the right time to put his nimble fingers to good use.

“Where have you been?” Sliske snapped, before shaking his head and instead saying, “It doesn’t matter. Your lies would only annoy me. You know what? Game over. I've had a good time, and whatever you were planning would ruin that. So congratulations, time for the winner to claim their prize!”

“Enough bullshitting, Sliske,” Jahaan rested his hands on his hips, defiance in his eyes. “Let the hostages go and we can talk about why you really brought me here.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sliske entertained him. “Oh? And why did I really bring you here, hm?”

“I read your notebooks, or journals, or whatever they are,” Jahaan stated, enjoying the flash of indignation in Sliske’s eyes. “When I refused to give you my soul, you decided to take it for yourself. These sick games were a way of making me ‘compatible’. And all of this because some lunatic guessed my name centuries ago…”

Inhaling a sharp breath, Sliske demanded, “How do you know about  _ him _ ?”

With a self-satisfied sneer, one he’d seen on the Mahjarrat too many times, Jahaan replied,  _ “Ego loqui Infernal, vos retorta irrumabo. _ What’s the matter, Sliske? Not what you were expecting?”

Sliske was too stunned to formulate one of his usual witty replies. No, instead, he looked genuinely shocked, confused… and with a steadily building fury in his eyes.

Moreover, he looked fit to hurt. “You weren’t supposed to read that...”

“Well I have. All of it. So you might as well be honest for once in your miserable life.”

“I  _ was _ honest with you,” Sliske growled, venom in his fangs. “I told you of my intentions. We had an agreement. You reneged. You could have made this much less painful for yourself.”

“You felt betrayed?” Jahaan let out a sharp laugh, his teeth bared and challenging. “Don’t like the taste of your own medicine, hm? Well, what did you expect me to do? Hand over my soul to you on a silver platter? You’d get an afterlife, but I guess you don’t care where that leaves me. You never cared at all, did you? Oh, you were good at pretending - hell, you… you had me believing - but you were just using me this whole time. So tell me, why didn't you just rip my soul out of me the first chance you got? Why not send me screaming into the abyss?”

Sliske’s fists were shaking now, erratic breathing struggling to be calmed. "To… to even think for a second that-"

The bolt whizzed passed the back of Sliske's head, a good foot away from the target.

Jahaan was just as startled as Sliske, seeing the bolt fly past him too. Only once he saw Guthan and Karil manhandle Ozan to the ground did he realise where the attack had originated. Unfortunately Ozan’s attempt at assassinating the Mahjarrat had failed, his normally perfect aim hindered by his lasting injuries. Nevertheless, Jahaan knew he had to try and make the spontaneous opportunity count. Surging forwards, he whisked the letter opener from his belt, hoping to make it to Sliske before the Mahjarrat realised what was happening.

It all seemed to go so well; Sliske’s interest was on Ozan, his back turned to Jahaan. Even as the man got closer to striking, Sliske didn’t even seem to register his motions.

Until he did.

Jahaan was so close, too close, when Sliske slipped out of the way, using Jahaan’s forward momentum to his disadvantage as he spun around, grabbed Jahaan’s wrist and snapped the blade from his hands, along with snapping the bone in the process. The sickening crunch confirmed as much before the pain even registered. Tossing his hand aside, Sliske then grabbed Jahaan by the throat, lifting him high into the air before launching him thirty, forty, fifty feet across the room. Jahaan crashed into the stone wall behind him with a shattering force, falling to the ground in a heap.

The lights cut out for Jahaan as soon as his head impacted the wall. Begrudgingly, he was pulled awake by Sliske dragging him to his knees by his hair, though at the rate his mind was spinning, he didn’t register the movement, nor the inherent pain that came with it.

It took a punch across his jaw that knocked out a tooth to force him back into focus.

Several more blows landed across his nose, chin and stomach. Sliske was punctuating each jab with words, but Jahaan couldn’t make a single one of them out, struggling to remain lucid among the beating. Until, that is, Sliske held Jahaan by the collar of his shirt and growled, “I told you, World Guardian… actions have consequences.”

Sliske targeted three more precise and fearsome strikes against Jahaan’s previously cracked ribs, easily reigniting the previous damage. Jahaan fell forwards, but Sliske caught him, sharply kneeing him in the stomach before slamming his head back into the wall. He held him there, watching Jahaan’s half-lidded, barely conscious eyes roll into the back of his head. Once he released his grip, Jahaan crumbled lifelessly to the ground.

Finally sated, Sliske walked away.

Idria, Ariane and Mary Rancour watched in horrified, aghast silence as Jahaan fell to the floor. Inside the grasp of the Barrows Brothers that were restraining them, the three were visibly shaking. Mary Rancour’s mouth hung agape, loosely trying to form a call, a cry, anything to try and rouse Jahaan, but it was for nought. In her line of work, she’d seen battle, bruises and brutality, but nothing so… malevolent. Ariane’s eyes darted between Jahaan and Ozan, the latter struggling fruitlessly in the hold of Guthan and Karil, screaming obscenities. His face was a dark shade of crimson, his eyes bloodshot and tone quickly becoming hoarse.

Gulping, Idria’s eyes were locked solely on Jahaan as she mumbled, “By Armadyl, is he still breathing?”

Her question was answered in the form of Jahaan slowly beginning to stir. He moved an arm first, then a leg, slowly regaining life into his limbs. All the while, his head was a pounding mess of screams and colours; with each throb, his vision blurred more and more. Clawing at the ground, he struggled to right himself, attempting to pull himself up to his knees. Instead, his limbs protested agonizingly, buckling under the weight and forcing him back down with a whimper. Roughly, his face scraped against the stone cold floor, his body convulsing as he coughed up blood.

Looking down upon Jahaan, Sliske’s eyes were empty of compassion. “So, you want honesty. Is that right, World Guardian?”

Through the ringing in his ears, Jahaan could barely string his own thoughts together, let alone decipher Sliske’s words. He was too busy trying to remember where he was, and why everything was hurting so damn much.

Sliske’s eyes practically burned with yellow fire, though the face housing them was deathly stoic. “Then here’s the truth for you: I didn’t want to say this, but your soul is damaged goods. It was shattered into a million pieces and barely put back together. You should be grateful that I’m even interested in it.”

Summoning the Staff of Armadyl to his hands, the shadows slithering around the room converged at Sliske’s feet. “But you’ve read my notes. You know why I am. If it’s any consolation, I have grown rather fond of you. I believe the bond we share is greater than that of friends, brothers, or even  _ lovers _ . If I had to put a label on our relationship, I’d say we’re akin to  _ soulmates _ .”

Letting out a hollow, mirthless ghost of a laugh, Sliske said, “A fitting term, wouldn’t you agree?”

Motioning towards Guthan and Karil, the two brothers brought Ozan closer to Sliske, forcing the young man to his knees as he groaned in protest, failing to shake off their grasp. Sauntering over, Sliske gazed down in cold amusement as Ozan glared daggers at him. Cupping the man’s chin, Sliske remarked, “A clever one, aren’t you? Yes, you’ll do quite nicely…”

Stepping back to the centre of the expanse, Sliske turned back to Jahaan, who was still curled over on the ground. The corners of his mouth upturned cruelly.

Loudly, so to break through the volcano storming inside Jahaan’s head, Sliske continued, “None of this had to happen, World Guardian. You chose to betray me. I was happy to sacrifice one of my kin for your cause. Had you kept up your end of the bargain, none of your friends would have had to suffer, I would have extracted your soul without such torture, and you could have spent eternity as a youthful wight. But plans have changed…”

Turning with a cruel sneer to Ozan, Sliske was all malice. “I no longer care for your presence, World Guardian. I’ll still have your soul, though. But one of the last things I want you to see before I send you ‘screaming into the abyss’, as you so poetically put it, is another wight to be added to my collection.”

“NO!” Ariane screamed, struggling desperately against the hold of Ahrim, but he easily outpowered her. “DON’T TOUCH HIM!”

But such an outburst only made Sliske laugh, a terrifying, haunting cackle that rattled inside Ariane’s chest. Ozan was wide-eyed and terrified, helpless against the weight of two brothers holding him down, their half-dead claws digging into the burns on his arms.

“S-Stop…”

The ridges of Sliske’s eyes lifted in perverse amusement. “What was that, World Guardian?”

Dragging himself to his knees, Jahaan coughed up another cocktail of bile and blood, trying to orient himself to being upright while the world spun around him. Blinking away the tears in his eyes still left light pulsing through his retinas in crude splotches. Everything was out of focus, Sliske included, but Jahaan managed to lock onto the tall silhouette. Fragments of his memory were returning at a snail’s pace.

“Stop…” Jahaan repeated, clutching his broken ribs, wincing through the pain. He was shivering violently, his head hung low, unable to lift it. “Please... stop…”

Lowering the Staff, Sliske slowly turned around and looked down at Jahaan with the satisfied glint of a predator who had cornered their prey. A stiff slash of a smile stretched across his face, warped like broken glass. “Well, isn’t this a sight to behold. The mighty World Guardian, Gielinor’s brave hero and Guthix’s chosen one… on his knees and begging.”

“You don’t need to hurt him,” Jahaan’s speech was slurred, blood dripping from the gaps in his knocked out teeth, but he managed to stop shivering enough to speak somewhat coherently. “You don’t need his soul. You need mine. I won’t fight anymore. You can make me a wight, you can kill me, I don’t care. Take my soul and let them leave. Please…”

Clenching his fist tightly around the Staff, Sliske’s low voice was ever so slightly wobbly as he said, “You know, Jahaan, I believed you the last time you said that. For all the chances you had to end me, you couldn’t, and I believed you truly didn’t want to see me gone. You accuse ME of only  _ pretending  _ to care, but perhaps you should examine yourself before throwing around such accusations.”

He turned away from Jahaan, a determined resolve acting as his mask. “It’s too late for us now, Jahaan. You’ve… hurt me. And now I’m going to return the favour.”

In the blink of an eye, Sliske reeled back the Staff, then thrust it forward and channeled a spell from it. Blue energy poured from the tip, striking Ozan’s chest. The heaviness of the energy pulled Ozan down like gravity; he felt like he was going to be dragged through the stone underneath him.

“NO!” Ariane cried out, watching in horror as Ozan writhed in pain, attached to Sliske’s beam. Idria and Mary Rancour were paralysed, transfixed by the sheer torturous power on display.

It could only be described as a miraculous bolt of adrenaline, but something gave Jahaan the strength to pull himself to his feet. He propelled towards the light with the desperation of an crazed animal. Everything was just blurs and colours and shapes, but Jahaan ran headfirst regardless, no plan in his mind except for  _ ‘KILL’ _ .

He didn’t make it far enough; while keeping the Staff and his grip on Ozan firm, Sliske shot a powerful bolt of shadow magic behind him. The spell collided with Jahaan at such force that he flew back to where he’d just crawled from, causing the world to go black.

When the beam from the Staff ceased, Ozan fell lifeless to the ground.

After a few beats of horrified, sickening silence, Ozan suddenly began to stir. Slowly, he came to his feet at an almost robot pace. Ariane only allowed herself a mere second of relief before she realised what was happening, and reality sunk in. Ozan marched over to Sliske’s side and turned around, staring through her with hollow, pupilless eyes.

Ariane knew she couldn’t let her emotions, her desperation, her grief control her in that moment. She needed to remain strong. She needed to keep calm and focus.

Ozan wouldn’t want her to break down, not now, when innocent lives were at stake.

They had to escape or this cavern would be their tomb.

Then, miraculously, an idea came to her. Using strength she didn’t know she had, she wrestled one hand free from Ahrim’s grip, disorienting the undead brother with her rapid movements. She reached out for the wand that he kept holstered at his hip, but could only brush the edge with her fingertips. The next thing she knew, she was on the ground, as was Ahrim.

“Ariane, NOW!” Idria shrieked. The Guardian of Armadyl had launched herself and the brother holding her into Ariane, causing all of them to topple to the floor. Fortunately for them, the downside of wights is that, without constant instruction, they were slow on the uptake. Thus, Ariane managed to throw herself towards Ahrim’s wand and snatch it up before she could be subdued.

Knowing she only had one chance, Ariane had to make this spell count. Taking aim at Sliske was far too risky. Instead, she aimed at the rocky ceiling above them and channeled the strongest spell she could. Upon impact, the cavern’s supports crumbled instantly. Rocks crashed to the ground, effectively creating a barricade between them and Sliske. But as she could still hear the Mahjarrat’s booming voice, she knew it wouldn’t be long at all before he broke through.

Now, they had to RUN.

Throughout all of this, Jahaan was slipping effortlessly in and out of consciousness.

So, he didn’t notice when Mary Rancour picked him up and slung him over her shoulder.

He also didn’t notice the four of them charging through the maze of tunnels, praying at every turn they’d find a rope or a ladder to ascend them to the surface.

He didn’t notice when the Barrows Brothers broke through the rocks and stormed after them, nor did he notice Ozan among their ranks.

He did, however, notice when they found a rope ladder leading up towards a trap door, as Mary Rancour accidentally dropped him trying to steady herself on the ladder.

With his head spinning like a throwing disk, he tried to blink the blurriness out of his eyes long enough to go, “W-Whereee am-?”

But the very next second, he was being hauled to his feet, his hands placed onto the ladder as he was furiously instructed to “CLIMB!”

Oh, he tried to protest - his body practically screamed with objection - but the sound of Idria’s pleadings, the sight of Ariane’s fearful eyes, and the way even Mary Rancour looked like she’d seen a ghost she was desperate to outrun triggered some residual survival instinct within Jahaan, and it allowed him to climb the ladder.

When all four made it out, Mary Rancour quickly found a sharp-edged rock to cut the rope ladder behind them, and her and Idria sealed off the trapdoor by heaving a large stone slab on top of it.

Doubled over on the ground with exhaustion, they fought for breath through rasping throats and manic-beating hearts. All except for Jahaan, who didn’t move at all.

“Oh gods,” Ariane leapt over to him. “He keeps slipping out of consciousness. We need to get him to a healer. NOW.”


	6. The Fallen Hero

Getting Jahaan to a healer wasn’t as simple as it sounded, especially once the group clocked on that they were in the middle of nowhere.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, a panting Mary Rancour’s shoulders sagged. “Where… where are we?”

Below them, the ground was charred and ashen, coarse and tainted. The same black clouded the skies above them, perpetual darkness seeping as far as the eye could see. The trees around them had died years ago, their clawing branches creating eerie shadows, lifeless and haunted. There was a biting chill in the air, and the ever-present feeling of a thousand eyes staring them down…

Gulping, Idria was the first to utter its name, “It’s the Wilderness.”

The Wilderness was a large and dangerous wasteland which made up nearly the entirety of north-eastern Gielinor - with the exception of the Daemonheim peninsula - situated directly north of the kingdoms of Asgarnia and Misthalin. This area was formerly known as Forinthry. It was a lush and green land at the time Gielinor was discovered by Guthix. But during the God Wars, Forinthry’s glory came to an end.

When facing off against the alliance of Saradomin, Armadyl and Bandos, a desperate Zamorak siphoned energy from the Stone of Jas to destroy them. While he didn’t succeed in killing the other deities, he caused a massive explosion that swept across the entire continent, turning it into the cursed wasteland that is known today as the Wilderness.

Such horrifying destruction caused the Anima Mundi - the life force of the world - to cry out in agony, which awoke Guthix from his long slumber. Soon, the Edicts of Guthix were put in place, and the gods were banished from Gielinor. The wars ended, but the damage was done; many races like the aviansies, icyenes, ourgs, and wyrms were almost wiped out of existence, and all of Gielinor suffered from the effects of the wars.

But not one kingdom suffered as heavily as Forinthry.

Today, many ruins of mighty cities still remain in these lands, barely recognisable as the great settlements they once were. All that was left were piles of bricks, and around them were the spirits of the creatures who died during the God Wars, too restless to pass onto the afterlife.

Suddenly, Ariane’s ears pricked up. “Do you hear that?”

Rising to a defensive posture, Mary Rancour confirmed, “Voices.”

Silhouettes soon appeared over the horizon, a group of people walking in their direction, featureless in the distance.

Looking around the barren wasteland for anything that could be used as a weapon, Idria asked, “Do you think they’re bandits?”

“Probably,” Ariane confirmed, biting the inside of her cheek. “Looks like a lot of them. We’ll be outnumbered.”

“We could run?” Idria suggested.

Sniffing a dark laugh, Mary Rancour countered, “Where to? Lumbering Jahaan around, they’ll be on us in no time. No, we stand our ground. If we’re lucky, they’ll rob us and be on their way.”

“We have nothing worth robbing!” Ariane snapped, “I did not escape Sliske’s hellhole just to be murdered by some rouges.”

Idria, instead of joining in on the bickering, was fixated upon the incoming group, her squinting, curious eyes trying to focus upon their leader. Slowly, she began to walk in their direction.

“Where are you going?” Mary Rancour hissed, but Idria shushed her. The Guardian of Armadyl’s heart was going a mile a minute. Soon, she quickened her pace, daring to call out, “Razbawn? Razbawn!”

The silhouettes stopped moving briefly, their mumbled chatter floating towards Idria. Soon the tallest figure called back, “Idria? Is that you?”

Thanking Armadyl for her blessed luck, she cried back, “Get over here! We need help!”

As she ran back to Jahaan and the others, Razbawn’s group quickly emerged into view, hurrying after her. There were about a dozen of them, armed and kitted up for battle.

“What are you doing out here, Idria?” Razbawn demanded, looking shiftily around him. “These are dangerous parts!”

Razbawn was an Armadylean archon, the fierce leader of an Armadylean warband. Warbands were a basic raid and defend occurrence that took place in the Wilderness, with each warband fighting to overtake and protect storage camps guarded by the followers of the different Gods. These camps are founded to gain an advantage for the followers of a particular God. Partaking in Wilderness Warbands was something Armadyl reluctantly turned a blind eye to. These bandits were going to take advantage of the Wilderness anyway, but at least they were doing it in his name. At the same time, they helped to show the might of Armadyl’s warriors when faced up against the armies of other gods.

Razbawn wore no armour on his torso, boldly (and recklessly) relying on his bulky shoulder and wrist guards to hopefully absorb any incoming attack. He also didn’t wear much on his bottom half either, relying on a rugged looking plateskirt to protect him. Around his neck, Razbawn donned a dream-catcher-esque necklace with the Armadylean wings in the centre. He had a headdress shaped like an eagle’s skull, decedent golden feathers protruding from the back, and boots that had steel tips, shaped to resemble talons.

Behind him was a group of Armadylean myrmidons, fighters donned in similar attire, only with full robes underneath their armour to cover their skin. Most were melee fighters, but Idria spotted a couple of archers among their ranks, all wielding the illustrious Armadyl crossbow.

“We have no time to explain,” Idria stepped out from in front of Jahaan, motioning down out the barely conscious man and saying, “Our friend needs a healer. Can you teleport us to civilisation?”

Immediately, Razbawn knelt down by Jahaan’s side, quickly checking him over without shifting the man in any painful direction. “No signs of bleeding. He looks concussed. What happened to him?”

“Long story. No time,” Mary Rancour hurried them along. “Please, can you help us?”

Shaking his head, Razbawn woefully declared, “You can’t teleport here, we’re too deep into the Wilderness.”

Collectively, their hearts sunk. There was a curse placed upon the Wilderness. It prevented any of its occupants from teleporting if they ventured too deep into its depths. Thus, anyone forced into a combat situation could not escape. No-one really knows the origin of this curse, but its another one of the many reasons for the unprepared to avoid the Wilderness at all costs.

One of the archers stepped forward and removed an amulet from around his neck. The ruby in the centre was dull and lifeless. Handing it to Idria, he stated, “This will teleport you to Armadyl’s nest. We’ll escort you south until the amulet regains energy. Right, Razbawn?”

Nodding, Razbawn added, “It won’t be too long of a journey - we’re by the Forgotten Cemetery. It’s about a mile or two south for the teleport block to fade. Don’t worry, your friend will be fine. Braddan, pick him up.”

A burly looking gentleman proceeded to lift Jahaan into his arms with all the exertion of carrying groceries. Jahaan barely stirred. He was in a groggy state of semi-awakeness throughout the entire half an hour walk. During which, fortunately, there was very little incident. A few skeletons made eyes at their party, but the archers made short work of them. At one point, in the distance to the west, voices could be heard and figures started emerging into view, but thankfully they re-directed themselves in a different direction. Ariane could only spot three of them; they must have been put off due to being woefully outnumbered.

After walking for long enough, Idria felt her palm start to tingle as the amulet was brought back to life. Calling for everyone to halt, she turned to the warband and said, “We’re here. I can’t thank you enough, Razbawn. Everyone. Good luck on the raid.”

Braddan passed Jahaan back over to Mary Rancour, who needed Ariane’s help to catch him and take half the weight. Her previous adrenaline rush where she carried him throughout Sliske’s cave had long since worn off, replaced instead with the relentless aching of her tired limbs.

Nodding to the Guardian, Razbawn replied, “I hope your friend recovers soon. Go with Armadyl, all of you.”

As soon as the teleport spell sent them to the nest, Mary Rancour and Ariane collapsed to the ground, losing their footing as they tried and failed to balance themselves and Jahaan upon landing.

Idria, managing to stay upright, didn’t waste any time before calling out, “Medic! We need a medic over here!”

Upon their clumsy arrival, numerous heads were turned, and soon a group of avianse had crowded round to assist them. One of them, recognising Idria, asked, “Guardian, what happened here?”

Turning to the falcon-headed female, Idria hurriedly replied, “No time, Talak. Where’s your healer? We need to get this man to the medical bay, right now.”

Talak gasped. “This is the World Guardian!”

By now, the avianse had helped Ariane and Mary Rancour to their feet. Two others held Jahaan upright, basically carrying his dead weight as the young man didn’t have any strength in his legs.

“I’ll introduce you later,” Idria blew her fringe from in front of her eyes. “Right now, medical bay.”

There were many medical bays in the fortress, but unfortunately, the closest one also happened to be the smallest. It was more of an observation and recuperation facility, with only a dozen beds, half of them currently occupied by resting avianse awaiting to be discharged by Gaw’kara.

Gaw’kara resembled a heron, tall and slender, with sharp eyes that pierced into their target. His thin feathers were neatly trimmed, orderly and pristine. He was the chief healer at this particular station, having practiced modern medicine since his time on Abbinah. He was never a fighter; his talents lied outside the battlefield, treating the wounded. Thus, he was fortunate enough to not be in Forinthry when the majority of his kind were wiped out of existence. He was back at one of the fortresses, attending to his patients.

He never thought himself fortunate, though.

As soon as he heard the bustle coming from outside, he rested his clipboard down on the bedside table next to the sleeping patient he was attending, awaiting the commotion patiently.

He wasn’t expecting half the flock, alongside four humans, to come barrelling into his domain.

Locking onto the condition Jahaan was in, he motioned towards the nearest free bed and hurried over to his side, summoning his assistant with a click of his fingers.

“Set him down here,” Gaw’kara’s voice was a lot warmer and smoother than was expected, a lot more soothing than his somewhat intimidating physique.

The avianse laid him down on the thin mattress, trying to be as careful as possible. Jahaan stirred slightly with a slurred groan.

Addressing the gaggle crowding around Jahaan’s bedside, Gaw’kara asserted, “Not all of you can stay. There isn’t enough-”

“I’ll stay,” Ariane affirmed, resolutely. Seeing the determined look in her eyes, Idria and Mary Rancour didn’t even try and talk her out of it.

As the rest of the humans and avianse dispersed out of the medical bay, Gaw’kara urged, “What happened to him? Tell me exactly.”

Rubbing the side of her aching temples, Ariane forced herself to repeat the preceding events, the memories more painful as the thumping in her head. “He… he was beaten. A lot. Thrown into a wall, punched in the ribs and face… he’s been in and out of consciousness. I think he’s got a bad concussion.”

Propping up Jahaan slightly with another pillow, he tilted the man’s chin upwards, but garnered no response.

“Get the guam,” Gaw’kara ordered to the avianse assisting him, who handed over a pestle and mortar with the ground leaf inside of it. After adding a couple of droplets of a violet liquid, Gaw’kara dipped a small cloth into it and held it to Jahaan’s nose. After a few seconds, the young man awoke with a start, throwing himself forwards and doubling over in the process. Moving so suddenly proved far too painful; Jahaan fell back down onto the bed with a high-pitched wail.

Gently, but firmly, Gaw’kara held him there. “It’s Jahaan, isn’t it? The World Guardian? Calm down. You’re going to be fine.”

Wide-eyed and panicked, Jahaan fought against Gaw’kara’s hold, but he had no strength to do so. “G-Get off me, dragonkin!” he hissed, his blurred vision making a terrible mistake.

Quickly, Ariane hurried into view. “Jahaan, it’s me, Ariane. He’s not a dragonkin, he’s an avianse. He’s here to help you. Relax, okay?”

Despite his rapid breathing, Jahaan started to calm himself. “A-Ariane? How did you get away from Sliske? Where are we? Where’s Ozan?”

That last question hit a bolt straight to the centre of Ariane’s chest. Stepping backwards, she simply replied, “This is Gaw’kara. Just listen to him and do what he says. Can you do that?”

Nodding meekly, Jahaan found himself overcome with tiredness, all his meagre energy being exerted in that last jolt. Seeing him slipping back under, Gaw’kara nudged him back into alertness, saying, “Jahaan, I need you to stay awake for a little longer while we have a talk, then you can rest. Is that okay with you?”

Jahaan mumbled something inaudible, so Gaw’kara pressed, “Jahaan? I’m going to need you to speak more clearly.”

Gaw’kara had an awfully reassuring tone. It was so comforting and smooth you could forgive just how patronising he was being. It was the healer’s way, of course. It worked in relaxing people more often than it annoyed them, and Jahaan was not one to complain right now.

“Right, yeah, okay,” Jahaan replied, taking a deep, strained breath to try and keep himself lucid and focused. His words were slurred from the gaps in his teeth, drool escaping onto his stained shirt below. 

Satisfied, Gaw’kara started his examination. It didn’t take much for him to feel the bulging lump forming on the back of Jahaan’s head. From his drowsy and confused state, coupled with the way the injury was inflicted, a concussion was undoubtable. Gaw’kara proceeded to ask a few questions, simple ones that Ariane could fact check, or ones that were common knowledge. Knowing he was treating the World Guardian didn’t change a thing - Jahaan was just another injured soul who needed to heal. Treating humans wasn’t that different from treating avianse, when it came right down to it, and Gaw’kara had treated enough of both in his time.

Motioning Ariane to one side, Gaw’kara whispered, “He’s definitely concussed. How severely is something we’ll need to monitor, to avoid any complications. After I’ve finished assessing him, we’ll need to keep waking him up periodically, asking him some questions, and check him over. This is done to make sure he doesn’t have any serious damage, like a bleed on the brain. Sometimes these things have a delayed onset, and we can’t risk him slipping into a coma without us being aware.”

The terms ‘coma’ and ‘bleed on the brain’ brought Ariane’s heart to her throat. She’d had her disagreements with the man - severe ones, perhaps - but she’d never wish this upon him. Not after all he did to try and save Ozan...

Suddenly, she was taken out of her thoughts by Gaw’kara’s voice in her ear. Blinking twice, she focused back on the avianse and said, “Sorry, come again?”

“I said, I’m going to check his ribs over next,” Gaw’kara repeated. He already had a little knife in hand to slice through the fabric of Jahaan’s shirt. “Are you okay? Ariane, isn’t it? Sorry, pleasantries were a little rushed earlier.”

Exhaling a light laugh, Ariane rubbed around her eyes. “Sorry, I’m just tired. Yes, it’s Ariane.”

“Would you like to go and rest with your group? I can-”

“No,” Ariane firmly cut in, softening her tone when she continued, “No… no I need to stay. I’m fine. Please, continue.”

Deciding to leave the matter for now, Gaw’kara used the small blade to delicately cut through Jahaan’s shirt, exposing the battered flesh underneath.

The sight made Ariane want to wretch. Jahaan’s chest was a contorted mess of coloured blotches. Blues melted into greens with yellow epicentres; dark purples gave way to black imprints. If she looked closely enough - not that she wanted to - Ariane swore she could still see knuckle marks.

Wincing, Gaw’kara lightly placed a hand on Jahaan’s chest. “Jahaan, this is going to hurt a bit. Can you tell me where the pain is worst?”

“Uh-huh,” Jahaan groggily replied, only half registering what was being said as the avianse ran his hands across his chest. There was no immediate pain to speak of, nothing more than the pounding ache he’d almost grown accustomed to. But that was until Gaw’kara pressed down on his left side of his false ribs.

The cry that followed made Ariane feel sick.

Quickly removing his hand, Gaw’kara turned to Ariane and said. “There’s undoubtedly multiple breaks here. Fortunately, he hasn’t broken any of his true ribs - the upper ribs, such as the ones that protect his heart. Despite the serious damage, I’ve thankfully not detected anything indicating that he’s injured his lungs. They should heal within six to eight weeks.”

Gently, with the help of his assistant, Gaw’kara pulled Jahaan slightly more upright, having the assistant hold him there while he carried out an inspection of his back. There was bruising, but it wasn’t anything like what he’d seen on the young man’s chest. Running his taloned hand carefully across Jahaan’s back, Gaw’kara stopped at his collarbone, noticing something amiss. From being thrown back into a wall, a shoulder or collarbone injury was the most likely, and from how it felt to the touch, Gaw’kara deduced that Jahaan’s collarbone was almost certainly broken.

“He’ll need a sling to assist in his collarbone’s healing,” Gaw’kara announced to Ariane. “It’s broken. It won’t take more than two months to fix itself, mind. That is - and I reiterate - he rests it. No sword-wielding in the interim.”

Ariane just about managed a half smile. “I’ll make sure he’s sensible. Thank you.”

The rest of Gaw’kara’s inspection didn’t take too long - he wanted to let Jahaan rest soon, but already scheduled with his assistant when the man should be re-awoken for evaluation. When Ariane pointed out the potential injury to his wrist, Gaw’kara told her it would be fine as long as it was splinted. The bone was broken, severely, but just like everything else, time is a great healer. They just had to rely on Jahaan not getting into any scuffles anytime soon.

Once they left the medical bay, Gaw’kara repeated the short form of the diagnosis to the other women. Noticing the burns on their hands, he ushered them into another medical bay to get treated, not wanting anyone disturbing the World Guardian and his other patients.

To Ariane, he said, “Once you’ve rested, I would like to hear how all this has come about, Ariane. As would Armadyl, I’m sure. No doubt he’s been alerted to how he is now housing the World Guardian.”

“Thank you, Gaw’kara,” Ariane replied, feeling her eyes starting to close but desperately forcing them open. She planned to nap beside Jahaan’s bed until he was next evaluated, knowing she’d have to give into the tiredness of her body at some point soon, or she’d just drop. “We all can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for us today.”

Smiling warmly, Gaw’kara replied, “Community and compassion are pillars of our faith. Now, go and rest, young one. Jahaan will be fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


End file.
